On the House
by yuugata no baka
Summary: Wammy's House is a successful strip bar in Tokyo city. Mello and Near bring their own uniquenesses to the craft. And L, he's the best there is. MattxMello LightxL AU; M
1. Chapter 1

On the House

So, I had this idea for a Death Note AU wherein our boys from Wammy's are professional strippers, all dressed up in pantyhose and skirts and leather, struttin' their stuff on the catwalk to a myriad of male voyeurs. First, I thought, "Man, this some good crack!" but then, "hey, this might actually work!" So, here goes nothing. Tell me what you think.

MattxMello will be the prevailing romance (looks as though I've _completely_ fallen for those two...), and I hope to include LightxL for later and some other minor pairings. This'll likely turn into some crackish, out-of-character, AU mess, but I hope I can do this enticing idea I had justice with my limited writing skills and attention span.

That being said, please enjoy the introduction and tell me if this is worth continuing.

--

It all started with L. L was an apparition, a figure wilder than dreams and more mysterious than fear. And once you saw him – spoke to him, heard him speak, watched him move – it was hard to believe that there was anything of worth in the world that _didn't_ start with L.

Known only by that one letter except to the very select few, "L" started the successful strip bar with business partner "Mr. Wammy", or as he was more widely known, "Watari"; in an offshoot of Tokyo's sex entertainment district. Wedged between neon lights and immaculately black pavement is set L's legacy, Wammy's House.

The connection between Watari and L is unknown, but it is mostly conceived that they are old friends, or perhaps Watari is a manager with a lot of experience, sought out and hired by L to work up his grand sceme. Watari looks the type of an old, retired butler; or perhaps an entrepreneur in his youth who with his pension decided to break into the entertainment industry. He looks a friendly fellow, and undoubtedly is, but he isn't one to be crossed. People have caused a fuss at his establishment – harassed his beneficiaries (or _came close to_, because it is unlikely Watari would ever let anything happen to his boys), attempted to harm his petit progeny, as it were; and ended up quite ruined or merely missing. _"_Such is the scene_,"_ Watari, a man of few words, would explain, if ever asked. "Bad things happen."

"Japan is a good scene," L had said, general knowledge contends, having travelled to the country when he was on the cusp of adulthood, merely 16 and in awe of the city of lights and technology and progress that was Tokyo. It was a good place to set up shop, full of growth and people and fetishes and money. He could've said "it's a place where a lot of _perverts _are," which may have been more accurate, but he didn't, some believe on account of his customary politeness, but others believe it was because L still clung and clings to the image of Tokyo he used to have – the one of brilliant minds and hard work, of innovation and tradition meeting in a flourish of bright lights.

Positioned in the back alley amongst all other sorts of night clubs, bars and theatres, some for women and some for men, some with themes and some with fetishes; sits Wammy's House. Run by men, frequented by men, and featuring men. Treated to front-runners L, Mello and Near, voyeurs of all sorts come to watch boys clad in fishnets and leather, in evening gowns and nothing more than their lingerie; and they do not leave unsatisfied.

Wammy's House is designed not like a traditional geisha house wherein clients are escorted to private rooms, but more like an old-fashioned American bar of the year 1940. The room is one big dance hall where customers take up a seat in view of the simple protrusion of center stage where the shows go on. For one reason or another, L chose to keep intact some of the old-fashioned fineries of pub nightlife. There are no booming subwoofers blasting bouncing remix tracks, instead there is live music played during each performance, utilizing the house piano and other brass and woodwinds. There are no flashing strobes or neon bands lighting the room, but foggy, gentle yellow filament bulbs that compliment the pure hues of the stage lights, warming the windowless walls and rich red curtains. There are no distractions; there are only the boys and their craft, commanding you watch.

"Come on, come on!" Hurry up and get ready!" Mello whines, his fingers wringing the wrist of his fingerless glove, toying with the buttons that decorate halfway up the arm. He passes a blue glance over Near, who is sitting relaxed in an armchair a few feet from him.

"I am ready," Near replies quietly. He curls a finger in his white hair, tugging the lock half-absentmindedly, it would appear, though Near is one with a mind that is never absent. He tucks his knees into his chest, minding not to damage his new pink tights that reach mid-thigh.

Mello huffs angrily. He's anxious; the anticipation of tonight's introduction sends tingles up and down his arms and to his fingertips. He looks around the backstage area, scanning in the darkness Near's position. The boy looks bored, untroubled by the upcoming event. _So__ help me God, if you screw anything up –_ Mello thinks tensely, though he knows with certainty that it's nearly impossible for Near to screw anything up.

"Don't sit like that. You look lazy," Mello snaps. He tugs sharply at the hem of his shiny leather shorts, balancing with practiced ease on his platforms.

Near is silent for a moment before his clear reply comes. "L doesn't mind if I sit like this."

Mello frowns; mumbles something ironic about the Boy Who Always Has to Be Right. He shifts again on his feet, lifting them one at a time and they clunk back to the floor rhythmically with little clicks. His nerves are slightly settled by the soft piano music playing beyond the curtain, the mumble of the customers' voices resounding in the big room outside.

Mello breathes in the scent of cologne and alcohol, of vinyl and perfume and freshly polished furniture. The House has always smelled like that, just before the opening act. Before the scent of human floods the place, before anxious men push themselves out of their daytime shells of sobriety and abstinence, let go to the richness of emotion and feeling, spilling sweat and alcohol and fluids onto the linoleum and rugs.

L always smelled the way that the clean House did, Mello recalled, fresh and new and unspoilt, save for the occasional lingering of icing and candy on his lips.

The very name L could all but bring tears to Mello's eyes. For some reason it'd been that way since he was young, before Near, before their huge success, when there was only L, and he, and Mello had never loved anything or anyone more. He knew that Near felt this way too, though he had no recognizable emotions most of the time. Everyone loved L. And little Mello and Near could delight greedily in the notion that the two of them, L's successors, held a special place in the man's heart.

While Mello twitched and Near flicked at his hair, out of the shadows of the curtains, emerging like a spirit of his element, the embodiment of casual sensuality, appeared L. His outfit was simple tonight – a sort of slim black top and short skirt that hugged his hips – but he could've been drizzled in chocolate and wrapped with gold, he was so perfect. With the usual messy hair and shiny black eyes, he looked a beautiful messenger in a worldly vessel. He stood with effortless grace, in an air that spoke of something beautiful and mysterious beneath the human form.

Mello all but snapped to attention in L's presence. Even Near stood up and straightened his white skirt. Mello watched L approach them and take his place between them, languidly stepping into stride behind the curtain, long, gloved arms dropping gently to his sides.

"Are you two ready?" L asked gently, a small smile on his face, one that only his two prodigies ever saw. He asked this before every intro, and Mello was fully aware if either he or Near ever answered with a "no", L wouldn't hesitate to cancel everything and tend to their needs.

However, Mello and Near both answered a quiet "yes" as the intro music began to play, and the room beyond the curtain grew quiet. L nodded, a little glimmer of playfulness sparkled in his eyes, hard to notice in the black depths, but clear, as he caught Mello's eyes reassuringly. He turned to Near and pet his hair softly. Near wasn't immediately responsive, but enjoyed the contact nonetheless, as the pinkness on his cheeks informed.

L turned to look forward, unwavering, unblinking at the crowd beyond the curtain before him. The murmur of the voices outside buzzed continually, growing over the growing loudness of the music outside. Mello's fingers twitched anxiously; Near fretted with the fringe of his skirt; L was still. There they stood, the Wammy's House front line-up. They were superstars in this time, in this place, for this purpose. They were loved by those who saw them, they were mysteries known hardly by aliases. Each of them pondered what the others thought of their positions, their fame.

The music drifted, unimpeded to their ears by the lifted curtain. The three stepped forward, lead by L, and the applause that erupted like thunder broke their uneasiness to pieces.

* * *

Short intro. The next chapters will have more content, I promise. I'm going for a sort of casual representation of sensuality and sexuality, taking the three boys' uniqueness' into account. I hope this doesn't degenerate into being hopelessly OOC. Anyways, happy Halloween, folks! I challenge you fans to dress as your favourite Wammy's Boy in drag. 


	2. Leather Tension

_Thank you to all of you with your wonderful and immediate reviews; __I'm__ going to take this space to reply to them briefly. First off, __Rinna-kun__,yeah__Wammy's__ House can't be anything but a dirty name in my mind. (First I saw it, I was like, "oh, you, __Engrish__, always making for unintentional and awkward meanings.") Child of the Will, all of your questions were ones I had to work through myself, and I hope most of them __will be answered__ in upcoming chapters. __And__ well, no one ever reads my profile, so I didn't see it necessary to compose one, but if you'd like to know I'm from Canada._

_For the rest of you lot, I don't have a specific response, but I will say I will include __MattxMello__ (if there's one thing that became certain in your reviews, __it's__ "__gimme__ my __fave__ pairing!") and __LightxL__ will come in later chapters. Light will be a patron, so, sorry__ if you wanted him __slutting__ around in the spotlight. But I encourage anyon__e else to make a stripper __fic__ –__ they're clearly __way too much fun__, since I'm done chapter__ two so quickly__ Thanks again for the support and continue to gush and rant and ramble about our favourite boys!_

On the House: Chapter 2 – Leather Tension

At the back of the House, in the darkness of the converging corners, in the shadow of a doorway, they kissed. The kissed with passion and indelicacy, as well as practiced strength and graceful ease. The man with green eyes swept out an arm and in a wide motion took into his arms the object of his desire, another man, one with fiery blue eyes and powerful features.

Their mouths didn't lock together like pieces of a puzzle, they had to be forced to conform – but Mello always liked a little bit of force. He let out a bit of a moan as Matt descended on his jaw with a hot pressure that dwelled dormant in him, ready to be manipulated and used to his lover's content. He loved to kiss Matt. He'd always enjoyed having Matt around, if not just for that. He likened it to eating chocolate: it was the taste of it that stirred and pleased him to no end, but it was the thing itself –the actual, solid existence of it that arose in him feelings of a deep, all-consuming _need_.

Mello's moans became deeper, louder, and as he had never been one to be able to restrain his voice and didn't plan to try, he abruptly pushed away the source of his arousal, the one drawing noise from him. He placed his palms firmly on Matt's chest and pushed him back.

Matt stepped backward, but kept his head dropped near to Mello's forehead, resting against it and blowing hot breath over their faces. Mello panted, mouth still open wide, jaw set awkwardly open with the pressure that recently withdrew from it. It took all of his resolve to not fall pliant in Matt's arms and let the soft tongue re-enter his mouth, but his resolution of ambition, at least for now, overpowered his lust.

"That's enough," Mello hissed, so only the two of them could hear. Pressed into the back corner of the main hall, it was unlikely anyone would come by, and not that Mello was any sort of prude, but he had something else in mind. He couldn't kiss Matt here.

"What?" Matt asked dully, with slight indignation. His hands went to Mello's shoulders and applied a little pressure to show he was not completely compliant.

"It's not good to let customers see we have lovers," Mello recited quietly. At first he felt embarrassed, because he was never the type to obey the rules, especially when it came to sex in public places. But losing customers certainly would not do. He was going to do this right. He was going to be the best, follow the rules, be famous.

"The fuck?" Matt asked, the confused look on his face turning into one of sudden anger. "Fuck them. You have your own life." He leaned in to land a possessive kiss on Mello's pale jaw.

Mello pushed the other man back again, this time with force. "Enough," he growled, looking hard into Matt's eyes.

Anger grew red on Matt's face. "What the hell, Mello? You aren't an object! You don't belong to them!" He held the blonde's upper arms with an anxious, dominating grip.

"Right, that's a privilege reserved only for you," Mello replied spitefully. They'd had this argument enough times. Matt was damn lucky he was allowed to talk to one of Wammy's boys, to stand back here at the changing room's entrance. If he was any other guy, he'd be kicked out by one of the bouncers. Mello could summon Rod at a moment's notice and toss him out. But Mello fought his own battles.

Matt frowned, not loosening his grip. His eyes grew dark. "That's not it."

Mello smiled a sudden, morbid grin in return. It appeared he was regaining control of the situation, quite quickly, as usual. "Oh really?" He knew he had power over Matt, and he knew he was cruel to use it, but if it meant resolving this, he would torture his friend. "You aren't jealous, Matt? You don't want to be the only one to own me?"

"I'm not," Matt replied, obediently dropping his gaze, like a pet who knew he was being punished, but would still claw and bite his way down if he had to.

"Oh? 'Cause you know you never will be. I love the attention I get from all these guys. There're so many guys here I could exchange for you, after all." Mello went on. If it meant torturing Matt to keep them properly separate, to keep them from being any closer than this, Mello would exercise all of his sadistic power. He felt his eyes and cheeks getting hot. "Men who compliment me and leave presents for me– they_ stalk_ me. And I love it, you know that, right? Aren't you jealous?"

Matt's hands shook on Mello's shoulders. "I'm not, Mello! I'm worried about you!"

Mello's eyes widened. This was the exact conclusion he was hoping to avoid. He wanted Matt to get angry and stomp off – oh, why couldn't he just get mad and leave? He was still furious, but suddenly sad.

"Come on, Mel! Why don't you leave this? Huh? It's a shitty job. It's dangerous and unpredictable. Why don't you leave?" Matt's eyes looked desperate, but his words resembled orders, so Mello was angrier.

"I can take care of myself!" Mello frowned, eyes wide with rage. "I can handle it."

"No, you can't! Mello, you never know what's going to happen! And I can't protect you if you keep kicking me out!"

Mello's face reddened. He didn't even want to win the argument anymore, he just wanted it to end. He had to make Matt leave, he had to understand that he couldn't be held, he was independent. This brunette could throw a fit and hold him as tightly as he wanted, but nothing would change.

"If you wanted to protect me, why didn't you stay?" Mello asked suddenly; tipped his head down as he felt the grip on his shoulders loosen.

Matt's gaze sunk to the floor, guilt flooding his features. He used to be a performer at Wammy's; that's how he and Mello met, after all. At the time that he had left, abandonment was hardly an issue. Had Mello felt that way all this time? That he had been abandoned?

"I left because I was tired of it. It's a shitty job, and you know it. You're treated like an object. People don't care who you really are . . . " Matt explained. What was really keeping Mello doing this was something neither of them dared speak of. "I grew out of it."

At this Mello fumed. His face was hot; he knew in a moment he would burst into tears and be forced to perform that night under a red wash to cover the tracks down his cheeks. Matt was such an _idiot_! Why couldn't he just get angry and leave? Like anyone else would? _"Grew out of it?"_ Matt was the most immature, selfish _brat_ Mello had ever known!

"You don't know anything," Mello spat, aware of the volume of his voice; thankful that is drowned in the noisy ambiance of conversation. Carefree, casual conversation, unaffected by real-world worries.

Looking up, the brunette caught the anger on the blonde's face and his first impulse was to mirror it. His face grew into a snarl and his grip on Mello's shoulders grew painful, nails impacting the membrane of his vest. "Admit it Mello, this job is fucked up. If you weren't so stubborn you'd–"

"Go home! Matt!" Mello yelled at once, seized Matt by the wrists and flung him away. He hardly had to directly _order_anyone – _especially_ Matt – to do anything. It drained him completely, arguing with his partner like this – he longed to just unleash upon him – to hit and bite and scream . . .

Matt receded, finally, but it did not satisfy Mello in the least. He stepped back, arms up, hands flat with surrender. "Alright, alright . . ." He didn't want this. Neither side would likely ever back down from this disagreement. "I'm going . . . I'm going! Fuck you and this place!" He attempted to yell over the commotion that was building around the stage, but his words only half-carried as he turned to exit through the front door.

"Go to _Hell!_" Mello called back, more quietly, as Matt receded into the darkness of the mob, another careless spectator, like all of the others, angry at something that wasn't his to be angry at. Someday, the disturbing realization reached his mind, Matt was not coming back.

--

Mello was supposed to be the "feisty" one. A whole lot of other words could be used to describe the young blond who worked at Wammy's – combative, violent, aggressive, controlling – but every joint needed a "feisty" character, one who worked up the crowd like the fighter agitates the bull, and Mello was the one. More than Mello was the aggressive one, was apparent that Near and L were not. The two of them were absolutely impassive and seemingly unwilling to express even a fraction of the emotion that Mello did.

Admittedly, Mello was the second most popular act at the House, second to Near, while L was in a whole different untouchable category of his own. It was by default assumed that everyone who came in liked L most, with M and N ranking second and third; and if that wasn't the case, in the fact was they likely hadn't seen L yet.

Sure, the little white-haired, soft-spoken saint had a larger following, but Mello could at least boast that his fans were remarkably _louder_. His were men who would riot, who would resort quite quickly to violence for his sake – men who would look like professional gentlemen in the daylight, but with a little encouragement from a glimpse of leather-clad thigh or bare peach midriff, would turn into beasts at a moment's notice. Mello loved it. These were always the type of people Mello was around; the ones he had become best at handling. The yelling, the passion, the catcalling and utter chaos he could insight with a mere flash of naked young skin.

Mello never hesitated to show off the unending attention he received – loud, wild frenzying that both Near and L seemed completely immune to. They didn't react in the heat of a moment, shout and let loose their inhibitions, but merely looked on serenely. In L, Mello had admired this control, because there as little he could make himself do _but_ admire L. But this passivity in Near infuriated him to no end. He wanted Near to yell, cry, scream, hit someone; and _he _wanted to be the one to bring Near to it . . . but that was a different story.

Mello remained at Wammy's for two reasons – for L, because he wanted to be around L, to be close to him, to learn and accept everything that was L, ever since he was young; and to beat Near in the most profound way that was in his power. He would work until everyone saw that Near was all fake – he wasn't a cute little lonely lover, he was a brat with no feelings and no respect. As long as he possibly could, he would fight to surpass Near and rise to the top.

Mello's act was rough, glammer-rock Visual Kei but with a touch of big-city America grit and grime. He tore through the place with binds and chains and straps and roughness reminiscent of a dominatrix, only in a vulnerable, youthful male. The indescribable mix of feminine sensuality and vulnerability, with masculine power and aggression. His tall and slim body poised him with perfect balance and a commanding pose; thin and straight like a knife's edge, a seem of hard leather, a master of seduction and anger, with raw emotion neither of his companions could match.

Also unlike his coworkers, Mello had a boyfriend. He had been with Matt ever since they started working at Wammy's nearly five years ago. Matt had it harder than him; he'd been working in the sex industry since he was way too little, but it didn't seem to damage him, as he greeted the typically rude and harsh Mello with a smile and open arms. Mello was hostile at first, but soon the two found themselves more interested in kissing in private than performing in public. Matt quit Wammy's three years ago, at first saying he was fitting shifts at the local garage into his schedule, but eventually phasing out his show at Wammy's entirely. Five months later, approximately, Near joined the line up, restoring the original three-man team that worked Wammy's five nights a week.

Mello and Matt kept in contact – Mello with his finger poised under Matt's collar and Matt with his confirming grip on Mello's waist. They lived together on the first floor of a two-storey apartment from where Matt programmed computers and maintained websites for extra money. They went out at night, went on drives to wherever, or else stayed-in to have sex, like any other urban couple.

Though he was mostly passive and would rather sit still for 36 hours straight in front of a computer screen than actually work, Matt could work hard, if he was so compelled, so Mello mostly respected him. He made enough money at the garage and at with his independent IT service and that income added to Mello's consistent tips meant that they lived well. Plus, passive as he was, Matt could get fired up if Mello brought him to it, so their fights were well-matched and made for lusty, exciting affairs.

And if nothing else, Matt was good sex. Sometimes painfully and slow and steady, so full of sarcastic sentimentality it made Mello's ears bleed; but at other times, so fast and slick that when he tore into Mello he left him raw and absolutely exhausted within minutes.

Mello knew there were problems attached to being a performer and having a regular lover. Fans liked to fantasize, to imagine themselves one day sweeping the boy they watch every night off of his feet, out of a life of working hard, and up on to their foldout couch.

"Clients fantasize about being their favourite dancers' lovers, so it's only rational that they would like them not to be attached to anyone else," L would explain calmly, and for this Mello nearly resented the man who could remain so unaffected by anything or anyone else. However L never discouraged Mello from being with Matt, who was often around to visit Wammy's.

_Only rational_, Mello thought. Of course it's _anything but_ rational to try and understand an attraction that keeps you coming back to the first boy who ever offered you kindness over anything else, the first man who kissed you and you felt something more than excitement. Still, Mello tried to keep Matt at an arms-length – it seemed easiest, even though it lead more and more often to such inconclusive arguments as the one tonight at the door of the dressing room.

Mello was not about to give up on keeping Matt around, yet, though. He would be twice the performer, twice the act, despite what may be a hindrance to his success in the eyes of others. He would be the best, while proving he could lay down beside whomever he wanted to, whenever he wanted to.

And unlike everything else in the business, Matt was constant. He was always there.

* * *


	3. No Fear

_Thank you all for all of your beautiful comments, you beautiful people!__I'm__ glad you find my writing style so enticing and descriptive, because I find it pretty unfeeling and odd. So, I'm glad I can entertain you wonderful folks!_

No Fear

L drew himself out long, stretching from waist to neck like a fiddlehead uncurling, spreading to reveal a flourish of elegant beauty, of slim stomach and neatly organized bones. He reached up and to the back of his neck to do up the ties on his top there, before letting himself slip back into his customary slouch. His grey top was sleeveless, his fingerless gloves reached to mid-humorous, leaving a meagre bit of skin in view at his upper arm. He wore a red pleated skirt, the one that he thought was most comfortable and easiest to wear out of all of his stage costumes; and black leggings beneath. It seemed only fitting that only a single spotlight on the bench where he dressed lit the dim dressing room.

"Watari," L said serenely when he sensed the man behind him, no doubt checking up on his First Son. "Would you hand me my shoes? And after, can you get something for Mello? He is nearly finished."

Watari allowed a small smile to breach his worn face, replied with a simple "yes", and turned from where he had emerged. The back of the House was furnished like a home, with living space for L, Near, Roger, and the man himself.

Feet wedged against the edge of the table, as L snapped the buckles of his shoes, he felt the wind of the opening of the curtain sweep the nape of his neck, allowing a panting, swaggering Mello. Upon seeing his idol inside, Mello instantly tried to reconcile his vulnerable state, standing tall to attention on his platforms, struggling with his breath.

"Did all go well?" L asked calmly, his composure in stark contrast to Mello's anxious disposition.

"Yes," Mello replied instantly. He was unaware of how to elaborate, of what details to tell L. Surely the story of the drunk in the front row whom he humiliated as part of the act, or the instance where he tripped on a note on stage would not be appropriate to tell L. The first was a story too childish and the second one of incompetence, neither would interest L in any way. Mello realized he didn't know how to talk to L, that it was much easier to watch him.

Watari reappeared in the room just as Mello was finding his shoes uncomfortable, small plate in hand. He presented the young blonde with a cup of tea and a Nanaimo bar, which Mello took happily. This always intrigued Mello about Wammy's – while other places rewarded their men and women working nocturnal shifts with booze or acid or otherwise, Wammy's served sweet treats to the three frontrunners and to all of the backup staff. Of course, there was a bar available on the left side of the entrance of the joint, for it was nearly impossible to run an establishment such as Wammy's without the presence of alcohol. Mello never drank at work and L and Near, he suspected, never drank at all.

The serving of dessert was rather bittersweet, in Mello's mind. It maintained a feel of innocence in an otherwise depraved and dark situation. L wouldn't likely see this the same way – he loved sweets and so it was only logical that he want to serve them in his establishment. This logic was either a sign of disconnect from the outside world, a sense of social ignorance, or maybe the embracing of an honest desire – whatever it was, it pleased Mello, but worried him the same.

Mello thanked Watari and looked up just in time to see L leaving for center stage. Typically two of the three front line-up worked each night, so the third could take a break, as Near was doing now, likely in his pyjamas, playing with his puzzle or toys.

Mello looked around backstage, and caught Watari's kind eye. "I want to watch," he whispered, and Watari nodded, approached the edge of the curtain on the neglected far left of the stage. He held it open as Mello exited and carefully walked down the stairs in the dark while balancing his dessert bar and his warm tea.

Over on the far left of the stage, the tables were empty. Most of the tables around the protrusion of center stage where L was making his appearance were filled with eager men, of all ages and walks of life. To the far right was the bar, deserted in favour of the main event.

Tuesday wasn't busy. It was the first day since the weekend that the place was open, but attendance was low until Wednesday's rush. Thursday was okay, and of course Friday and Saturday the place was jammed to the doors, the bouncers working at times to turn customers away from the door.

L was enchanting, Mello mused as he took a seat at an empty booth far from the stage, so he could watch without himself being watched. He munched his chocolaty dessert, savouring the look of L, as the rest of the room was. The sight of that lithe, slim, bent body was charming and dangerous all at once.

Customers at first found it difficult to accept L's direct gaze, more accustomed to dancers with half-lidded false smiles and puckered, half-open lips. But after the initial shock of L's unique and obvious sensuality, people were drawn to the man with intensity. His big black eyes shone with mystery under the blue and red lights, and his direct focus elicited a presence and confidence like no other.

Mello admired the other man's motions around the pole, the sweeping of his limbs across the stage. His gaze was gentle, though he was taking in every aspect of the surroundings as he sunk to the edge of the stage, legs folded up, balanced on his heels. As if the show drew to a sudden stop, the audience was silent and still, holding their breaths, as Mello found himself doing on the sidelines.

Without explanation, although of him it was hardly required, L reached out to one of the men in the front row as the music faded to a quiet background noise. Mello stared in awe as L selected one of the men in the audience, singled him out and leaned close.

"What is your name?" L said softly, voice clear. The man, middle-aged, looked flustered at first, adjusting his hands in his lap.

"Yagami," the man answered, "Souichiro." His face looked tired, and a little modest. The men on either side of him, however, were excited in his place, loud with their catcalls and encouragement.

"Good one, director!" one of the men near Yagami, younger, dressed in an according uniform of a business suit and tie, said boisterously. He reached over and pat his colleague on the shoulder.

"I told you it'd be a good idea to come here, eh?" another man called.

Throughout the interaction L was obviously sizing Yagami up, figuring out what kind of person he was. Likely a hard-working fellow in a high position, tired and stressed. His friends suggested that he come to Wammy's to unwind. L was so interested in people, it seemed, or at least he had a knack for predicting them. He had this ability that Mello admired and practiced himself, to think and solve things with just the right amount of steadfast logic and porous compassion.

"How are you?" L asked. His face remained serene.

"I . . . oh, uh," the man stumbled over his words, treating L rather shyly and politely. "I've been tired, but I feel quite alright, now."

"Yeah! Tired from working so hard!" a man called immediately. His speech sounded formal, though permeated with the occasional intoxicated slur, indicating some high-status job. "This fella' was just promoted!"

Yagami instantly averted his eyes, in a humbling gesture. L did not excuse him, nor did he encourage the man. He lifted a thumb to his lips in a gesture of innocent thought, but also of genuine, pure sensuality. The men who cheered grew quiet, as they knew what was to come was something special.

"You came here to celebrate?" L asked, now noting the array of half-full glasses at Yagami and his cohorts' table.

"Er, yes." Yagami replied, swirling the dark liquor in his short glass. He seemed out of place, shy, as if he was missing something, something of which L probably knew.

L was however silent in response.

"Actually, that is, I've been rather stressed lately, and my wife suggested that I go out after work sometimes . . ." Yagami continued; now gaining the conviction to look fully into L's eyes "So I can end the day happily . . ."

L let a small smile grow upon his pale face. He suddenly approved of the man's strength. Courage to do what one thinks is write, to him, was an important trait. Somehow, L could make a person open up to him – no one could, or would willingly lie to L. He could know everything about a person within moments of speaking to them. Maybe it was due in part to the environment, or the catalyst of alcohol, or maybe it was simply L.

"It seems to me it would do you better to spend time with your wife, if you desire to end your days happily," L said softly.

Cheers and catcalls erupted in the crowd again, and more slaps fell onto Yagami's back, who was turning a shade of red at the ears and cheeks, visible even in the coloured stage lights.

"Yagami-san," L said in a practiced, clear tone, breaking through the noisy crowd. Parts of the audience grew quiet and swallowed their drinks, others sat still and in open-mouthed anticipation.

"When you go home, tell your wife that you are thankful for everything that she does for you," L ordered simply, voice gentle. "Look her in the eyes, hold her close, and tell her you were promoted. Tell her with absolute confidence."

Yagami nodded in understanding. He closed his mouth tight, moustache obscuring his thin lips, and looked slightly downwards. L looked pleased, as though his mission was complete. His mission was to bring peace to his patrons, and he did it with absolute skill and success.

"Until then," L continued, positioning himself languidly against the pole, "please enjoy the show."

Mello watched in awe as the scene drew to a close. L's pure strength came from being able to relieve people of their pain. It was uncanny, that a man who Mello knew to have very few intimate relationships of his own, and even fewer people in his life that he opened up too, could be so adept at understanding how people worked. Mello desired than sort of patience and reason, that ability to be so in control of everything without struggle. He had desired it since first he saw it put into action, nearly five years ago.

Mello sipped the remains of cold, cloudy tea from his cup, savoured the last crumbs of chocolate on his lips, and stood to go back stage to get ready to start again.

* * *


	4. Restless Souls

_I find chapter three so irritatingly short, so I put this one up with it._

Restless Souls

Matt sipped unenthusiastically at the cloudy remains of his liquor, letting the harsh flavour settle on his tongue like silt in a reservoir. Like that silt, it wasn't dangerous in small quantities, but had the potential to send everything out of control. Matt had seen it enough times, walked in on an incoherent brawl between patrons – most of the time everything was settled peacefully or forcefully by that massive head bouncer, Rod, who scared the hell out of Matt, and who Mello insisted was really a big softy at heart.

Matt looked around the place, chewing carelessly on an unlit cigarette, quite content to suck traces of liquor out of the filter. The House was filled to the brim – Near and L were up tonight, with Mello being less prevalent but electing to work anyway. Matt knew the story. Little Near would crawl on stage, and Mello, seeing the ridiculously large crowd he drew, would stick around all night, if not just to watch, determined to keep track of his rival's progress.

Matt knew that story, too. Ever since Near showed up and started instantly to draw more attention than him, Mello made it his duty to obsessively compete with Near. Mello could be obsessive, after all. He first focused all of his might on wanting to be just like L, no matter the cost; which had evolved into wanting to _defeat_ Near in order to impress L, no matter the cost; which nowadays seemed to be lingering at times towards plainly wanting to step on Near's hair in order to _stand next to_ L.

It was clear that Mello's obsession was closing steadily in on Near. Matt didn't mind, however, and in fact didn't think he could deal with Mello feeling that kind of intensity towards him. He instead had been pretty much glued to Mello since the day they'd met, overlooking his need for control, his aggression, his coldness; always coming back to be Mello's to dispose of as he so desired. He'd come back tonight, after all, after the two of them hadn't been talking since the day he backed out of Wammy's three nights ago. That was a good and bad thing about having a day job and living with someone who had a nightshift – you didn't have to see them when they came home.

In fact Matt had been trying to catch eyes with the blonde beauty all night from his post at the bar, to say, _"I'm here again, Mel,__"_ or anything to that pathetic effect, but so far, was failing.

As the place was packed tonight, all kinds of customers were jammed into too-small or uncomfortable chairs, dragged out of storage in whatever state they were found. Some patrons leaned against the outer walls or against the bar, including the fellow to Matt's left. He'd caught Matt's eyes excitedly a few times since he sat, and finally made to talk in a casual, conversational tone.

"That Near sure is something, isn't he?" the man began. Matt set him around his mid 30s, generally clean-cut, probably well-settled into a career, though he didn't seem the type to have a family. His hair was a shiny slick of black, falling near his shoulders and combed meticulously. He wore thin-framed glasses and had a look of wistful admiration on his slim face.

"Yeah, he is that," Matt replied with slight interest. The man's eyes were set on the stage where, after the too-attractive and too-naive little fops of back-up dancers finished their show, would appear Near, the little white angel in his solitary glory.

"So cute, so young – innocent, really. Don't you think?" the man mused. Matt wasn't sure why the guy had engaged him, but one thing seemed certain – the man was more interested in talking than listening.

Matt paused, drew his glass near his lips. "Yeah, I guess." He knew a hell of a lot more, but he couldn't say. He couldn't explain that how being in a room alone with the kid for a few minutes caused the words "innocent angel" to morph surely into ones like, "manipulative and cold little brat" without fail. He didn't hate the kid, but Near just wasn't what his look made him up to be.

"He's my favourite. I could watch him for hours." The fellow with the intelligently sculpted face explained.

The young brunette raised an eyebrow. This guy was weird, but nothing beyond a little fanatic. Loving a stripper, dancer, actor, or anyone in the public light was like loving a fictional character, really. Absurd, but harmless.

"Who's your favourite? You gotta have one you like best, right?" the man continued, turning briefly to Matt and then back to center stage.

"Yeah," Matt repeated. He let a small grin graze his face. "Mello, I guess."

The man nodded slowly. "Oh yes?" He pursed his lips in brief consideration of the idea. "He's quite lovely, but a little too rough for my taste."

Matt's eyebrows knit together in slight frustration. Though determined not to, he found himself back at Mello's side, feeling sorry for him. It was the same story again he knew – everyone thought Near innocent and weak and Mello rough and calloused, but the opposite was true. Near was cold and unfeeling – you could insult him in the harshest tone over and over (Matt had witnessed this firsthand on account of his partner's temper) and the little robot would merely wait in silence until you were through. Compliments, he knew, affected Near in the same way. You could confess your undying love to him all day, and all day he would merely twist his hair and reject you without the slightest feeling in his apology.

Mello, on the other hand, was fragile. If his world started to fall apart, he'd fall apart right along with it, and in his desperation to grab the pieces together, end up breaking them further in his haste. Matt did the best he could to hold what little they had intact so that Mello would never have to suffer.

Matt had seen suffering before. His mind went into the past, to when a particular fight between Mello and the local crime syndicate, over whatever disturbing deal Mello was trying to make to further himself, turned so fierce that the safest conclusion ended up being to _blow the place up_. The thin, shaky, scrawny blond Matt used to know dragged himself home only to collapse outside the front door – "it's over, Matt! Fuck . . . Matt!" he had cried, clutching his hand over the melted flesh on one side of his face. Matt merely held his long-time friend about the shoulders; made sure to kiss his permanent scar after it was all over.

Matt let out a sigh, gulped the last of his liquor, and let his mind return to the present. To the fanatic he was talking to, to the boy Mello _so _wanted to hate, and to the place that turned _real_, breathing people into beautiful, moving sculptures.

"He's the one for me," the man continued softly. "He doesn't deserve to be alone like this, does he? No. He needs someone to protect him – " the man was trailing off, looking to a far off place, an imaginary picture drawn up so clearly in his mind that no one could dislodge it. Matt nearly felt sorry for the guy – so focused on an unattainable dream. He tried to deter him.

"He's got plenty of body guards, I'm sure," Matt began with a little snort of a laugh to attempt to put an end to the fan's seriousness.

"No, I mean, someone who can protect his heart. His purity. Someone who loves him –" the man's eyes were practically glowing from behind his glasses.

The younger man at the bar had to hold back a laugh. "And I suppose _you're_ the one to do that,_ eh_?" Was this guy serious? He knew religious people, and was thankful that Mello never got this sort of fuzzy look in his eyes; he didn't think he could handle that. But this guy, with his spotless look and meticulous hair, had desperately built a whole religion based on his own vision, and in the center was Near.

The man remained steadfast. "Yeah. Maybe someone like me. A beauty like him smiling on a guy like me. I'm sure it's happened before, right?" A friendly smile rose on this fan's thin face. He looked Matt in a sort of melancholy love spell right in the goggles.

Matt paused. This guy was desperate, he was a hopeless and uninformed romantic, really, but, maybe he was just indulging in an unattainable fantasy like everyone else in the House.

"Or maybe not. I just hope –" the man continued with a release of breath, looking distant , facing the stage, arms draped on the bar behind him. "I hope he finds someone."

Matt was silent. He knew that last little sigh was for someone completely different than the Near of reality, and more for himself than anything.

--

Near was a stoic, silent beauty, that's for certain. His eyes were lidded and unblinking, soft and yielding. But he never quite mastered that direct focus that L had. His expression came off passive and unfeeling, dark and uncompassionate. But his thin, young body and gently rounded face still attracted huge numbers of fans.

Near could play all of the typical favourites – nurse, angel, student – what was disturbing was he could look underage, which pleased all sorts of men all for their strange individual reasons. He wasn't – God knows L wouldn't permit it, not only on account of his sense of justice and rule, but also on account of the fact that he would never let anything harm his boys. They were both vulnerable and mostly unfit to operate in the outside world, as they were now. Near especially had scarcely known the world beyond Wammy's since he came, and what he was involved in before that time was mostly a mystery.

The story was that Roger, the House's secretary and head of financial affairs, found Near in the street on his way out to run errands. The curly-headed boy was broken and curled motionlessly under some apartment building stairs a block from the House. He was silent and divulged no details of his name, his past, his purpose, or anything of the sort and Roger elected to take the helpless child home.

When Roger found Near he was covered in bruises all over his face and shoulders, but as soon as they healed was revealed a spotless white face, emotionless and innocent. It horrified Mello at first that this little creature who resembled a tiny China doll was in fact his age – 15 years old at this time. It horrified Mello more that this little brat made more of a following that he had built up over his time at Wammy's when he himself started performing.

Near stayed on as a permanent dancer at Wammy's for reasons of retribution, and the fact that he truly had nowhere else to go. Like the other three who considered themselves Wammy's Boys, Near had no family and no home. He stayed in the room behind the House where he was kept to heal, and lives there still, with L and Watari and Roger, and he does not consider them part of his family simply because Near does not operate under those terms. Eventually the boy revealed all of his past to his knowledge, and it too, like his age, lined up mostly with Mello's. He was a child prodigy, picked on at school since the beginning, orphaned young, abused and cast out by his foster parents. He was, like Mello, fitted with a mysterious alias and no further questions were asked of him.

His brilliance as well as his previous abuse made Near emotionless and unwilling to connect with any human beings, basically uninterested in any sort of interaction or intimacy. Where the painful up-bringing, (or lack thereof) had made Mello untrusting and desperately controlling, and had left Matt to an extent, unsociable and submissive; the life of abuse and objectification and undernourished minds, had merely stripped Near to emotionless passivity.

Near accepted these terms without apprehension. They were simply facts. Mello at times denied that he was anything other than a product of his own making, but he and Near both knew better, that it was their strange lives that made them this way.

Little Near feared nothing. He was not shy or prudent or the slightest bit squeamish of donning the most elaborately degrading costumes, or taking them off, which made him a favourite obsession of the many men in Tokyo.

The bit of retained baby-fat and soft, white skin made Near look more at times a little girl than a young boy. (Again Mello was annoyed – _"why would you come to see a _guy_ if you wanted him to look like a _girl_–?")_ Near looked as charming in dresses and lace and the finer, feminine fabrics, as he did without them.

This little prodigy had no emotions, he played with toys (and fabricated elaborate scenarios on a nightly basis, a habit that Roger insisted was one of a mind of untapped genius), he owned the stage with no inhibition and kept a straight face when he spread his legs with exhibitionistic practice. Whatever it was that made Near great – his brilliant mind, his separation of emotion from work, his fearlessness, or a mixture of them all, made him hugely popular with the Wammy's crowd.

--

Near wore a simple unfitted white dress that hung from generous, stiff straps at the shoulders to the straight hem at upper thigh. His long pink tights rose to above the knee and were fastened with old-fashioned garters there. He didn't offer as to why he liked those rich pink stockings, but he wore them nearly every night.

He swung around the pole in a relaxed gait, white gloved fingers lingering on the old brass for a moment when he stepped away.

Heels clicking on the black stage, Near stepped around in a well-practiced formation, looking distant and unaware of the effect he was causing the audience. Some men clambered close to the stage, others cheered and clapped with desperate enthusiasm.

Near stared out beyond the stage and sunk down to a sitting pose, legs spread. He paused, reached deliberately between his knees, lifted the hem of his skirt and revealed the white undergarment beneath. He carefully rocked forward on his hips and stood back up, returning to formation. The hem of the skirt stuck to his garters and crumpled innocently there.

Near caught eyes with the various audience members – some young and beautiful, others old and worn, others fat with wealth; each dropping setting their jaws in silent obedience when Near's heavy gaze fell upon them. He thought, as he sunk into the hard surface of the stage, sweeping around him with his small palms, of the power he had. These people would do anything he wished.

They _really_ would, Near thought, more amused than feeling anything else. If he were any less focused, he would ask them to. _"You, stand up,"_ and _"you, empty your wallet and give the contents to me"_ – the boy smiled a little to himself. It wasn't practical, or necessary, though. He had plenty of money, or rather, the House had plenty of money, and Roger used that money to take care of him, and that was quite good enough for him.

The boy stood once more, rolled himself to the side and pulled himself up, all the while with a serene, unyielding look on his face. His lips remained sealed shut as if guarding a secret.

Work was okay; it was something that he'd been doing so long that he couldn't think of stopping. But it was not exactly stimulating for a young man with his mind to roll around on stage in a skirt and heeled shoes. After work, he'd perhaps go play with his toys and see if he could solve that murder-mystery he'd generated the night before. Polly Pocket was brutally raped and strangled nearly three days after she went missing from the local department store, and as of now, Near had narrowed the suspects down to only one: Harvey Birdman. The supposedly just superhero was simply too close to the case to not be involved.

Maybe he'd figure it out tonight.

--

Matt dug into his back pocket for another cigarette, finding a slightly crushed one, which he smoothed straight with his fingers before settling it between his lips. He lit it and immediately took a few anxious puffs before slowing to a reasonable pace.

He stood outside the back door of Wammy's, the one that opened into a closed alley, patiently waiting. He'd wait for Mello to come out, pull his hair out of the collar of his coat, and march in that commanding fashion ahead of Matt to where he knew the car was parked.

It felt much better not to think about why he came back every time. Why he didn't just run off for good and leave Mello to the filth in which he repeatedly planted himself. He felt nothing against L or his brood, really, but this life at Wammy's would tear a perfectly normal person apart – and Mello was not a perfectly normal person, by any stretch. So why didn't he distance himself far away from this mess?

It was like a job, a simple obligation that said he would give Mello a home and security and help with whatever he asked. When he didn't think too deeply about it, that's what it was – a responsibility, of being _employed_ to Mello.

But when he thought about it, deeply considered it, there were a lot of buried emotions, wants he abandoned before he knew what they were, and a permanent, rather quiet need to protect Mello with all of his strength.

Matt let out a loud, foggy breath in the emptiness of the alley. The front of Wammy's opened onto a glorious stretch of neon lights, trafficked by a majority of pedestrians, but the side was an empty, wide alley mostly full of darkness and air. Not many people made the journey through the darkness of the alley, though it was a shortcut to the convience stores, open-air bars and restaurants behind the club street: this, L noted, made for quiet most of the time, which was good, because after all, Near and Watari and Roger all lived there, behind Wammy's main hall.

Matt had lived back there for a while, after all, when L drove him in there, when he had no where else to hole himself up in. He'd never enjoyed the arrangement, and was glad to free himself from it and live in a place of his own, mildewed and dark as it was. Mello had said at first that the place was unliveable, to which Matt replied, "screw you, get your own damn place, then"; but Mello didn't move, rooted himself in place like some kind of bug.

Matt was drawn out of his solitary reflection by a meek presence in the alley appearing near to him. The figure came into view and Matt saw a young man, perhaps anywhere from age 20 to 35, dressed in formal office wear and holding a takeout box. The man approached Matt and stood still, a few steps away.

At first Matt imagined a lost drunk, stumbling though the streets carrying the remnants of his dinner. But the determined expression didn't suit that categorization. He looked more of a concerned, abandoned prom date, wilting corsage in hand, clinging to the hope that he wasn't waiting in vain.

Matt scoffed. He wasn't clueless at figuring people out – a skill he'd likely picked up from L, like the other boys who congregated at his feet. He knew this guy – the cocky, selfish, clueless salaryman who wanted a chance to confess his love to someone he thought he knew. Though it wasn't his job, Matt felt he should dismiss the guy, for his sake, and the sake of the ones behind the door.

"He's not coming out," Matt said, hoping that the pronoun was vague enough to deter the man.

"O-oh. I, well – is that so?" the man asked. He stumbled, his words were polite and unsure. Was he trying to hide something?

"Yeah. They won't be coming out any time soon," Matt explained, tipping back his head with a bit of flippant authority. He didn't see it in the dark, but he felt the man near him was blushing.

"Oh," the man whispered, his mannerisms belying the cockiness Matt had earlier pegged him with. "Then, may I ask why you're waiting out here?"

Matt raised his eyebrows. The guy wasn't as dumb as he looked, either. _"None of your business," _might sound a little suspicious to this fellow.

"I'm the delivery boy. I'm waitin' on a signature for a package," Matt explained clearly. It was a good exit, and it didn't require any props. He looked hard at the guy, through his goggles, who looked down shyly.

"I see . . ." the man replied. He started to fiddle idly with the elastic on his cardboard takeout box. He didn't seem angry or defensive, but was instead disappointed. Maybe he wasn't the type of creep who wanted his celebrity crush to bend to his every will, but maybe he was simply a genuine fan . . . ?

Matt scoffed. He still didn't know who the man wanted to see. If it was Near, he'd just feel sorry for the guy. But he didn't know if he'd be proud or pissed if this guy had a crush on his Mello.

"Then, well, could you give this to him?" the man asked softly, offering his box to Matt.

Matt took it before asking, "who?"

"L." The man replied even more softly.

Matt balanced the box in one hand, observing it. L drew admirers like this shy fellow, did he? Ones who wanted to give him food?

"It's cake. I thought, well . . . will you give it to him?" the man repeated.

Matt was still. For a moment, he empathized with the guy. (He'd been doing this too much lately.) Whatever his own opinions, there was no reason to take it out on this bystander by ruining his day.

"I'll see what I can do," Matt replied, biting his cigarette at the edge of his mouth, so that he could put both hands on the box. He noted the label on top.

"Hey, do you want your name on it?" Matt called, to the man who already had his back turned.

"Oh, does it say–"

"Yeah, it's got your order number and your name: '11-04, Matsuda'."

"Oh my . . ." Matsuda stepped forward and put his thumb on the box, on the edge of the label, tentative. "Um, should I–? Yes, I guess it's best I remove it." With that, he tore off the label and crumpled it in his hand.

Matt slouched and watched as Matsuda drew himself up to full height, a slight air of flustered still hanging to his person, gave a little bow of his head, and started to walk away.

A few moments after the alley was clear again, Mello emerged from the dark door, dressed in his street wear and red coat. He gave Matt a little irritated frown and then caught sight of the box from beneath his upturned nose.

"What's that?" he grumbled disinterestedly.

"Cake," Matt replied simply. "Some guy left it for L."

Mello glared suddenly at the box as if it were an unwanted rival. "And you think we should give it to him?" he asked indignantly, silently adding an _"are you a complete moron?"_

Matt merely raised his eyebrows, immune to the way that Mello usually spoke to him with such condescension. "He seemed like a nice guy. He didn't have any ill intentions to speak of."

Mello buttoned his coat, now looking away from the box and his partner. "What if it has drugs in it, or otherwise?"

The brunette looked up. Mello was now pulling his blonde hair out of the collar of his coat, so it fanned over the back of his neck. It was gesture he recognized, but wasn't sure why he admired it.

"Then we let L determine that. He isn't_ completely naive_."

Determined not to contradict that statement, Mello snatched up the box and marched it back in from where he came, to deliver it to L's dressing table and tell him "some guy" had "no ill intentions." L took the box, nodded his head ever so slightly, and said thank you.

* * *

dot dot dot

Ugh. I'm having trouble writing Matt. He's awfully moody and sentimental in this story, (for him, that is). But it's an AU, so I'll allow it. I usually prefer the aloof, unfazed Matt, (the "oh no Mello please don't shoot me with your hilariously small handgun"-type fella) but whatever.


	5. Broken

Broken

That night when Mello came in to do his shift only one member of Wammy's greeted him. L, dressed in casual wear stepped out of his room and into the main dressing room, barefooted, and said a simple "hello." It would make sense that Near was in his room, for his night off, playing with blocks or mini mechas, so to Mello, L's next words made no sense at all.

"Did Near come in with you?"

Mello became still. "No. What do you mean?"

"Oh," L said calmly in response. His big black gaze dropped to the ground in contemplation, hands loose at his sides, encroaching upon his pockets slowly.

Roger appeared in the doorway with the elegance of a drowned cat, flustered, clothes ruffled, adjusting the spectacles at his nose and looking with concern into the quiet dressing room. "I sent him out an hour ago to buy groceries."

Mello's eyes widened, eyebrows peaked with concern beneath his thick bangs. Near? Go out? Mello, (when he deigned to think about it, which he insisted inwardly that he didn't often) knew that Near preferred more to sit and be waited upon than get up and do even a minor chore, if it was unnecessary. "You sent him out by himself?"

Roger's fluster intensified. "Well, he wanted to go. Said he was bored. I would've done it myself, but," he adjusted his glasses again; a nervous habit, "I figure he went out for a bit of a walk after. He wouldn't be this late, I thought, however."

Mello swallowed his slight panic. Obviously Roger and L had accepted the boy's need for a bit of fresh air, and rightfully, after all, the boy should be allowed his independence. Were Mello anyone else, he would have taken this as an acceptable answer as well, but it was just . . . _Near_ wouldn't do these things. Something was wrong.

"Where did he go?" L asked Roger calmly.

"To the convenience store behind here," the old man replied, "I've been there with him before."

L was silent for a moment, Mello staring hard at him. "Well, shall we go look for him?"

With that, L pushed on some shoes and Mello re-donned his coat, panic rising hidden inside him. L seemed unconcerned, and Roger worried, but Mello had a sort of bad feeling in his chest, a tightness that stiffened his limbs and tingled all over. Near never did anything that wasn't strictly regimented; he wasn't one to stray from his mission to take a walk on a whim. Something must've happened.

When they got to the back door that opened into the alley, Roger was the first one out and Mello the last. He hurriedly pushed ahead, however, when he spotted a patch of dirty white in the darkness of the pavement.

Silently, the three men noted Near's coat bunched up in the gravel. Mello fisted the soft fabric, dropping it nearly as instantly as he spotted something far more unpleasant than the omen of the dirty white jacket –

Near's still body, crumpled up like that of an injured animal, clothes dishevelled, lay in the dusty darkness of the street.

Roger drew in a bit of a gasp, and made instantly to go to the boy's side, but Mello made it first, taking long strides, fists clenched, falling to his knees over the boy's body.

"Near! What happened?!" Mello demanded, eyes wide and white, staring hard at the pale, unmoving face.

Near drew in a breath. He was breathing very slowly and measured, tiredly, although he seemed calm and composed. For once, to Mello, the boy seemed fragile, and Mello was afraid to touch him.

The pale eyes moved slightly to look at Mello, the rest of him remained still. "I was overtaken when I came out of the door."

Mello shook with sudden anger, with fear, with intensity he couldn't contain nor explain. "What?!" he yelled with ferocity, "What did he–"

Mello paused as he caught a glimpse now of Near's exposed lower-half, his shredded pant legs, dirtied black at the bottoms, pulled viciously down to his knees; his missing undergarment. Near, either too weak or too innocently immodest, had not made to recover himself. Mello clenched his teeth, and with restraint (not knowing if he would hit his foe or pet his damaged white flesh), lifted a shaking gloved hand to tug Near's pants back up.

Near looked away, back across the alley, still immobile. Now Roger was knelt at his side, unsure whether it was appropriate to take the small boy's hand in his own. He was trembling, guilt a shadow in his kind eyes. L squatted by Near and examined him with what appeared medical disconnect.

Mello growled a little. His impulse was to be angry at Near. This shouldn't have happened! He reached up and lay a hand flat on the ground beside Near's head so he could lean into interrogating range.

"What did he do? Didn't you fight him off?" Mello hissed. He caught sight of a darkening bruise on Near's pale shoulder that may have been fermenting into a sizable hickey and he was infuriated.

"I did," Near replied quietly. Laying on his side, he turned his head now to face Mello.

Mello recoiled at the closeness. There were silent, dormant tear tracks shining dully red on his rival's face. Time and again Mello wanted to make his foe cry – but this, his silent, calm defeat at the hands of a stranger made Mello feel nothing but a sense of sickly disgust.

"Did you fight him? We learned self-defence, all of us,for a _reason_! Did you even _try_ to stop him?!" Mello demanded further, pushing close to Near, glove pressed into the pavement filling with dirt and rogue scratches. His eyes grew wide, teeth grit.

"I assure you," Near's eyes were sincere and unblinking, though his tone was hard with patronization, as he stared at Mello. "It did everything I could to stop him. He was simply larger and more physically powerful than me."

Mello wanted to scream and yell and hit. He tensed over Near's slight, bent form, reached out to touch him, but then reconsidered, dropping his gloved fist to the pavement hard, just beside the other youth's shoulder.

"Who was he?" Mello asked quietly through teeth tightly clenched.

Near did not blink. "I do not know."

Mello glared, heard L's quiet protest, but made to ignore it.

"Who was he?!" Mello demanded again.

"I did not recognize him. And I was not, for the most part, in a position to look at him."

Mello tensed. He looked as though ready to curse and swear and destroy, though unsure why. "I swear, Near . . . I . . ."

L whispered, "Stop, please, Mello."

"Near . . . how did this happen?! I–"

"Enough, Mello." This time the voice was clear and harsh. Mello did not argue with it.

The blond stood, refusing to look anyone in the eyes, feeling they'd all betrayed him: L, who was as ever unyielding to any irrationality; Roger, who didn't defend him with the same passion he _alway__s_ would Near; and even the little brat himself, crumpled at his feet, seemingly unaffected, if not unaware of the violation that had befallen him.

"You will do the introduction yourself, tonight, please, Mello. Have the others help you feel it necessary. And if you will," L explained clearly, "tell the customers we will be closing tonight at 1 rather than 3 o'clock."

Mello paused, still, an incredulous look in his dark eyes. His fists remained clenched. He wanted, for the first time ever in the presence of L, to run away, to give a yell and dash into the empty night. He certainly wasn't in the mood for business as usual, but in that account, he wasn't in the position to change things.

"Do you believe you can handle this, Mello?" L asked, though in it's polite delivery the request was really a disguised order.

Mello didn't look up, because if he did, he knew his anger would dissipate, or else melt into something way worse, like pity, remorse; upon seeing L's calm face. He would do this, this small favour to L, no matter how uncomfortable it made him to abandon Near and act like nothing happened.

He knew what was right so he nodded, and walked inside, letting his fists loosen, the leather of his gloves relax. L was the best to handle this, (no matter how much Mello felt he _had_ to be involved, and couldn't explain why) and he would, and everything would be alright because of that.

--

After 1 pm passed, Mello felt drained and useless like an empty bottle of liquor. He'd carried the show almost single-handedly, with a few of the extras as support, and not only that, but he had to break it to the enthusiastic masses that they would have to end their night two hours early. The patrons were like grade school brats denied recess. Mello was met first with '_aww_'s and tired disappointment, but as the night rolled on and men became less themselves, there were angry, insistent, demanding cries and even the occasional threat.

The night proved extra work for the bouncers, who had to clear out customers who were clearly quite insistent that to kick them out was to kick them out of their own house. Mello retreated as the last of the fodder was being cleared, reached the head bouncer Rod, with whom he had respect, and kissed him on the cheek as thanks. The big man tipped his chin humbly and simply replied with a "be careful tonight, babe," as the blonde disappeared into the comfortable security of backstage.

L was there, watching his laptop's screen with an intent look. Mello wondered if he should interrupt, but decided instead to wait until he was addressed.

"Watari, please cross-check these photos with the public database of offenders. Also, local civil services staff. I have a feeling," L said quietly, and Mello noted the man standing like a statue behind him, silent and watchful at L's back. "There's a percent chance he'll be there."

Watari nodded calmly. He reached out a hand to either assist or beckon L from his chair. L stood slowly, his long body stretching languidly as he uncurled himself from the seat, and Watari replaced him there as he approached Mello.

Mello bit his lip anxiously as the other man came close to him. In his moderately heeled boots and with L's typical slouch, he was taller than the one he idolized, and suddenly felt atypically uncomfortable for it. He wanted to sink to his knees and into L's mercy like before a holy messiah, give all of his burdens completely over to the other man. He had figured out what was on the screen and he was practically holding himself from bubbling over with questions. _Is that the __guy__? Have you found him? What are you going to do with him? Please, God, L, tell me!_

Mello shivered, dropping his eyes with sudden obedience to the other's will. L would never tell him, wouldn't let him be involved in this ugly business of crime and punishment. He was at once frustrated and in silent reverie of the man before him.

"Is that . . . ?" Mello asked quietly, cautiously. He had a habit of pushing, of not stopping before he went too far. His fingers formed fists again, but his anger seemed replaced with a deep, frustrating sorrow that he couldn't comprehend. Just now was it beginning to settle that Near . . . _Near was_ . . .

L nodded once, confidently. "Yes." His big black eyes, as usual, revealed nothing but that constant seriousness. A serious that was not grave, or dark, like L himself, it simply _was_. "Are you alright?"

Mello nodded in return. He was too, too tired to fight, to complain, and this was L, after all. "I called Matt to come and get me." As soon as the words came, he felt ashamed, a little irritated that it sounded like Matt was his escort. Was this what he had been reduced to? A victim, like the vigilant Near, who still seemed to be unaware of the gravity of his situation?

"He's okay," L said softly, as if reading Mello's thoughts.

For some reason, the intrusion, however good-natured in intent it was, broke Mello. Something about mentioning, nay merely suggesting, that he might care how Near felt . . . it was something Mello could not control and thus refused to put any thought into. At whatever rate, this shoved-under-the-rug state of business was unfair, and had gone on long enough.

"Will you–" Mello attempted, but even his words had little power. "Will you get the guy, L?"

L was still. "I'll take care of things, Mello."

Mello shivered harder, knees weak. This wouldn't be the first time he'd made himself sick with stress.

Impassive Near made him want to scream and cry and hit; impassive L made him want to curl up, fall into submission, and pray to God for forgiveness.

As much as it stung to be taken out of the equation with L's typical haste and indifference, Mello knew it was where he was meant to be. If he found out who hurt Near and was now threatening the livelihood of L, and himself, he would undoubtedly hunt the man down with untold ferocity. He would go to far, hurt someone, break the law, in all probably make things worse.

The two men stood in silent opposition, staring at each other until Matt came. He took the front door, seeing that the empty bar and floor was easy to manoeuvre. He entered the change room cautiously, to see all was still and silent. Mello wasn't talking up a storm and Near wasn't throwing him the occaisional contradiction. The atmosphere was silent, drained, all too dark.

The explanation was short and not detailed; L delivered the events that took place that night with medical accuracy and law-like restraint. "This evening, Near was assaulted and raped in the alley outside by an unknown assailant."

As soon as the words fell on Matt's ears, he grabbed Mello's hand. He squeezed, ignoring his partner's irritated reaction and clinging selfishly to him like a child. The blond merely tipped down his head and lightly curled his fingers around his long-time best friend's.

Mello was all too calm about this, on the outside at least. The matter must have been tearing at him for a long while, Matt reasoned, to the extent that it would make him quietly complacent, and so he instantly asked to see Near. He barely awaited L's confirming nod and strode out part Watari, seated at L's desk, and out the back door of the dressing room.

He led Mello down the hall, tugging him hard by their hands, locked together like machinery, and nearly as cold. Mello was silent, and matt hardly liked to even look at him when he was like this, but he shot a glance behind his shoulder to his love silently behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mello's intent face and knew instantly that Mello had been crying sometime tonight. He didn't plan on asking about it.

The two made it to Near's room to see him asleep on his bed, stacked high with support and with comforters evading from all sides. He seemed as brutally impassive as he had when awake, his hard now clean and sparkling white on his pillow. He looked more a child that either Mello or Matt had even seen. They didn't comment, standing wordless in the doorway.

Matt peered at Mello, eyes naked and rich brown. The man was merely staring at Near's defeated, yet undamaged form on the high bed and he could practically feel Mello's mind attempting to comprehend it. The blond looked positively drained and weak, and Matt had a hard time being around him when he was like this, but knew that's when he was needed most. It made him nervous to wrap a comforting arm around Mello's waist, though when it was there, settled atop leather-clad hips, it felt fine.

"Matt," Mello began softly, not turning his gaze from Near's glowing white form – an angel, broken in their midst. "Get me out of here."

* * *

Thanks for sticking with me, readers. I'll probably get the next chapter up after Christmas break, sometime in the first half of January. Until then, have a fun holiday, folks! 


	6. Just

Just

L's eyes were cold and harsh as he stepped carefully out of the car. His heavy coat covered the street clothes beneath, plain and loose, settled on his hips and shoulders easily like a mould. He didn't think seriously about the fact, though yes, L considered it, because L considered every aspect and every detail; that he hadn't been out beyond the House in a long while.

L approached the first-floor door and allowed Watari to follow carefully and silently behind him. L kept a mask of serious stillness, focused and cold as the door came closer in the light of the step.

L knocked firmly on the door with the back of his long hand. Watari stood with his hands in his lap, folded loosely.

The door swung open to reveal a clean-cut male, black hair and eyes proceeded by heavy-framed glasses. L knew him right away; his face translated all too well from the pixelated hardness of the security camera recordings L was made to watch over and over. The man in flesh was just as lifeless as the digital rendering made him out to be – somehow as if his spark was hidden deep, or stolen, or was in someone else's care, something unnaturally uniform and empty.

"Mikami Teru," L began coolly. His voice was measured like just the right dose of poison – undetectable.

The man seemed forthcoming enough. Maybe a little too adaptable, considering the hour. "Yes. May I help you?"

Working out every detail and becoming one hundred percent sure (or at least a percentage close to that perfect) took L only one day.

"Yesterday evening you assaulted a staff member at a downtown entertainment establishment," L explained harshly.

The man's briefly welcoming attitude dissipated to make for the return of that sterile, lifeless pose. "I did not."

L didn't move in the slightest. "This is your face, is it not?" He produced a printout of a harshly digitized still from a video camera, and the retouched, clearer version beside it on the page.

Mikami stiffened. Watari was standing nearer L in the light coming from inside the house, still silent.

"And this is your civilly-appointed prosecutor's identification provided by the municipal government, is it not?" L was becoming perhaps slightly more persistent. It was nearly imperceptible, but Watari, sensing it, made to step nearer to the man in the doorway.

"It was just." Mikami answered, nearly silently, as if speaking to the cement of the porch. His words were serious and fragile, as if the slightest agitation would shatter them.

"Please understand that what you did was a criminal act," L began, in his own personal warning tone.

"I needed to do it! He needed to be broken. He was–" Mikami started again, voice growing louder and more dramatic.

"Mikami, please!" L interrupted with uncharacteristic force. His voice was level, his tone harsh and mechanical. "You must understand that what you did was unforgivable, that you will be punished–"

"No! Leave me be!" Mikami called out suddenly into the empty night. He made no effort to escape or even too deny what he'd done, bolting himself into the doorway with the kind of steadfast security that L had suspected him to have when he first glimpsed the man's pristine face in the dirtiness of the alley on the security tape.

"You cannot expect to get away with your crimes. What you did was–"

The crescendo of Mikami Teru's voice continued to rise. "I will not be punished. God told me to do it. _He _will not wrong me! _He_ will not allow me to be harmed!"

L's face grew dark, seemingly unaffected by the revelation beyond the slight widening of his black eyes. To him, God was merely a concept, one alien and separate from his own understanding of life. He took Mikami's interpretation with a grain of salt comparative to the man's own theoretical pillars.

"_God_ had me do it. God knew he was wicked, and God _made me_ punish that boy! No, no . . . he let me, allowed me to do His justice!" Mikami was nearly shouting now, a preacher's proud cue, defiled by obsession; pausing dramatically to drop his voice to drastically low tones. His pristine black hair shook from its oppressive coif and fanned his neck as he tipped his head to the sky.

L typically didn't need to yell – his arguments spoke for him in brilliantly clear tones; but he couldn't help his voice rising and snapping at the end of the sentence, "Watari, please restrain him. I am 100 assured that he is guilty."

Watari nodded in silence and reached towards Mikami, who stood shaking in his modest flat's doorway. He all but fell into the old man's arms, posed oddly straight but also weak in his resilient stance. Producing handcuffs from his coat, Watari fastened Mikami's thin wrists together without struggle.

"God won't let me down," Mikami insisted, leaning hard towards L's balanced frame in passing. "He's out there. _Here_, in fact. On our human earth. He'll find me. He'll find _you_."

L's eyes were wide, pupils black holes swallowing the scarce night light. He was silently angry, a sort of anger that let nothing in and nothing out, but was merely a heavy wall across him. "If your God is involved in your crimes, he will be brought to justice," he whispered softly, something more to himself than the nearly hysteric Mikami who was now very much in a different world.

The connections Watari had to the local police and indeed even national and global organizations were rather a mystery. L trusted Watari and it was silently recognized that the old man would handle the administrative work from here on out, as it were, now that L had solved the case.

Mikami, now quiet, though with a dazed look that subconsciously off-put L's silent disposition, was loaded into the back of the car, and buckled diligently in by Watari.

L sat in the front and pulled up his knees, silent, contemplative. Watari sorted their found evidence into an envelope before settling into the driver's seat. L's heavy coat bunched around his shoulders, nearly obscuring his face in the collar, his thumb to his lip its habitual slot.

The drive was nearly silent save for a few quiet moans issuing from the back seat. L contemplated. He had never worshipped seriously, though as a very young child he had examined the Bible and memorized the commandments as per the teachings of his caregivers, though he never seriously considered the invisible entity of which the readings spoke. But that time even seemed so far away – or was it painfully near – his childhood, inner realization . . . within grasping range . . . For L, there was only what was here and now – solid, true, precise.

Mello was religious, however. He wore his crucifix in attempt to either conform or rebel – L had narrowed the blonde's personal reasons down to a few choices, but he never lingered too long to select one. Mello was how he was because he was a human and he was unique, and that was alright for the circumstances. For L, it was about understanding what a person did, how they thought, for that was what he could map and clearly outwardly articulate – _why_ a person did what they did were musings more often confined to his innermost mind.

Mikami was spread across the back seat, leaning awkwardly over his seatbelt bindings, mumbling what might be classed as prayer, quiet and secure. L's teeth clicked gently on his thumbnail.

"Watari," L said softly, suddenly.

"Yes," Watari replied. That may have been his first word of the night. Words were scant between the two of them when L was working on one of his "cases": any problem big or small that needed to be addressed.

"I have never felt in danger in my line of work," L noted, eyes wide even against the harsh streetlights.

"Yes," Watari said. What was inherent was that that had since changed; tonight L was rather affected by fear, perhaps not in an overly emotional sense, where the palms sweat and limbs quiver, but in a way cut-and-dry _real_ to L. The fear of _losing things_. What was in L was the fear that he could've_ lost_ someone, something – and just as easily as that someone could have been his brilliant Near or his passionate Mello, it could have been him.

"Watari," L began again. His tongue caressed his dry lips briefly. "Tomorrow morning, please go and buy Near some toys."

Inherent was the meaning of L's kindness, Watari knew. He also knew that "some toys" meant buy absolutely every plaything, puzzle, and figurine and shower Near with, if not happiness – for after all of these years the boy had not even forced a smile – stimulus. Placation. Something to keep his mind off of how the world really worked.

Though Near was far too smart to be distracted like that, so it was a moot position. But L intended to protect his artificial brood anyway.

"Yes," replied Watari. L scarcely heard it.

--

Fatigue lay draped over Mello like a melancholy veil, spread between his elbows stretched above his head. The shimmering mesh of half-sleep clung at his face and neck, chest and naked lower half. He stared up at the fake fluorescent light seeping from the small fixture in the ceiling, eyes dimly lidded.

Matt had hardly let them get through the door before tearing into him, scooping Mello into a sort of drunken kiss, pushed by some outside force, thick and clumsy with defeat and desire, cruelly tired and somehow attentive. Matt was suddenly a blaze, uncharacteristically passionate, desiring to be overwhelmed by lust. Wanting to savour what it meant to be with another person. Someone who knew him and who recall him after his death.

Mello had allowed himself to be ravaged, though only briefly did Matt's mouth wander freely across his throat until Mello fought back, claws bared, nearly jumping up into Matt's arms and locking his legs around his waist, sucking and tugging here and there in a lusty ritual of confusion. Matt then threw them both down on the couch, and with mechanical precision, took off Mello's pants.

Mello had felt high or drunk and wondered if fatigue could do that to him. Yet still he was singularly focused, and in the sloppy, messy affair of their sex, could recognize that Matt was too, and knew that they shared the sort of initiative to struggle along through anything to complete something.

The episode had been unclear, though somehow bluntly painful, like something was trying to escape, pushing just beneath the skin. Mello didn't really even feel Matt's cock enter him, as the sensation was coupled with the pain bearing down on his knee that was bent into the hard edge of the armrest. In a groggily angry reply for the unfair manoeuvre – Mello always liked to feel it go in for the first time – the blonde yanked Matt's head down to his shoulder by his hair, reached another hand around to his backside. He dug his nails impatiently into Matt's ass and pushed him farther in, an action that he knew hurt by the way the brunette winced into his collarbone.

Mello took Matt's thrusts, thinking of scolding him, swearing, but managing only to sweat. Pressed into the end of the couch with his ankles by his head, Mello bore the dull ache and primal pleasure he so needed, giving a thought to the violated Near and strangely despondent L, not realizing that this sudden lusty spell was because he and Matt were likely the only ones involved who felt the pain of the ordeal.

After orgasm bit hard into both of them, Matt stood wordlessly and adjusted his jeans, and headed into the bathroom to smoke. Mello lay still on the couch, a hand over his forehead, Matt's skin under his nails.

Mello never thought about his relationships in much detail. Near, L, and Matt were all there, and there were various others that were never enough to merit meaning to him there as well. They were all there, and just the fact that they were there was enough to satisfy. He never paid much attention to their states of being, there was never any sort of fraternal compassion in his life, never any need for it . . . but now Near was hurt and why did that hurt him? It could just as easily have been him or L, or Matt . . .

Matt was standing in the bathroom, leaning out the window over the toilet, puffing smoke out through the screen. The night was a sterile, stiff cold, not like the brilliantly hot nights he'd experienced in L.A. before, or the musky, rainy nights he'd enjoyed in England before that. He knelt on the toilet, clinging stubbornly to consciousness, unable to keep still enough to sleep and unwilling to end this night.

Matt was there, broody and dark as Mello was coming to learn he secretly was, when he wasn't hiding it with cool sarcasm and a stylish demeanour. Mello was aware that he was just as emotionally messed-up as his companion, but the way that Matt tried to hide it made it a lot easier to get annoyed with him. Mello watched Matt shake his bangs out of his face, arms on the windowsill, kneeling on the covered toilet with thoughtless balance. Mello thought, despite the cigarette stuck in his mouth, and despite the fact that he_ knew_ the truth was to the contrary; that Matt was young and unspoilt. Maybe it was in the way he sat so easily like that.

His mind went to ignorantly innocent Near, and also to the torn and sullied Near, while brushing his fingers across his scar. He lingered on the idea of innocence in a sort of dream state, musing pathetically on innocence and trust and why couldn't he just be objective like L?

Matt walked back into the room, approaching Mello with a swagger reminiscent of lazy violence that lead Mello to think he was drunk or had somehow gotten into something in the minutes since they'd parted. His eyes were focused and intent still, his goggles not to be found over his raw hazel eyes.

Matt reached out and pushed a hand through Mello's hair, settling his bare palm on the back of his partner's neck and leaning in for a kiss. He was demanding, asking for something and telling something at once, tongue circling Mello's lips as if to mark out the territory rather than exploit it. He climbed up on the couch and straddled Mello's bare hips, still kissing him while running a hand down his side.

Matt was pushing insistently against him with such effort that it seemed like he wanted sex again. Mello wasn't particularly opposed, but preferred to be the initiator, or at least for Matt to be in a sexier mode rather than this sorrowful-feeling slump against his stomach. Mello reached a hand up to put it on Matt's neck, only to have it snatched away.

The brunette pushed his partner's wrist into the armrest against which he leant, pulling back to look him in the eyes. Mello stared up at Matt, who was neither abruptly sentimental nor coolly sarcastic in his expression, but stoic, and if not apprehensive.

"What?" Mello asked plainly, confused. Matt was silent.

"What, I said."

"I saw him." Matt replied calmly.

Mello's glare deepened into concentrated slits. "What?"

"The guy who got Near. I seen him before," Matt explained.

At the mention of his rival's name Mello sat forcefully up, pushing himself up on one arm and Matt away with the other. "You – what?!"

"He was at the bar the other night, Mello. I saw him on L's computer, and I knew I'd seen him. He was talking to me about Near - " Matt explained with a sort of latent anxiousness – one that made his voice calm and measured but his fists shake against the couch cushions.

"Why the _fuck_ didn't you tell anybody?!" Mello yelled, suddenly reaching forward for a weapon, something sharp, anything to threaten his partner with, settling on just his fist, clenching it hard in Matt's collar.

"You want me to report every suspicious guy that comes to the House, Mello? Huh? My job would never end!" Matt replied scathingly. "And it's not my job. This is exactly the kinda thing I've been telling you about– "

"Matt–you fucking–" Mello's fist pulled at Matt's collar until the brunette harshly retaliated by taking Mello's jaw in his own hand and pulling him closer to yell directly at him.

"You know all the fucked-up creeps that come to see you guys? He was sitting there, making all these remarks about how perfect Near was – just another fan, right, just another weirdo with no life," Matt licked his lips free of the saliva – his and Mello's – that clung there. "I thought he was just weird, I mean – there're more of them, you think they're just too into it, be they're dangerous!"

Mello grit his teeth. He didn't want a lecture, _had never_ wanted a lecture from Matt. He knew it was the truth; he'd been dealing in the shadier side of things since he was 15, really, and in his world assault and murder and rape were like currency, everyone had it in their pockets. Mello had always been a vigilante, always wanted to see justice, but everything he saw had made him all but immune to crime and immorality, and he often wondered how L and even Matt managed to keep such a clear grasp of right and wrong. He thought often about it. Why was Matt telling him this?

"They're fucked up, and they wanna hurt you. Take you away. Fuck you." Matt moaned, pulling loose his grip on Mello's jaw.

Mello glared up at Matt, who was hissing under his breath and immune to Mello's blue stare. "Why're you telling me this, Matt?" He asked quietly, angrily, not sure if his partner even heard it.

"I can't take it, I just had to tell you," Matt said in a nearly inaudible tone.

Mello shivered, eyes growing. He was unable to reply and blamed it instantly on his fatigue. His body suddenly yearned for comfort again, for pressure, release. Safety. Consistency. Or, that was what Matt wanted, and by some odd osmosis he was feeling it as well. The boy sat in his lap, pressed asexually against his hard hips, looking down.

"I can't stand it–" Matt hissed and leaned down, taking Mello's head in one hand and making their lips meet again. He moaned helplessly, somehow expectant that his friend beneath would somehow knee him in the groin and then run off, but unyielding still.

Mello kissed back with equal force, pulling Matt in by his collar. He breathed shallowly between kisses, glaring still, but secure in his grip. He was angry, but more so suddenly overtaken by the urge to be gripped and pulled apart and held together and he knew that Matt's hands would somehow find the way to do it.

"I can't either–" Mello hissed, pulling into Matt's shoulders again with his nails. The words just slipped out, result of the pent up feeling that nothing was ever right, ever since he could remember, everything

was balancing on the edge of bedlam. And it was 4am and he was tired, sick and sore and clinging hopelessly to his mate's back.

Matt withdrew and looked down at Mello. His eyes were loyal, questioning, and unabashedly affectionate.

Mello glared back and then pulled Matt to his mouth again because he couldn't take looking in his eyes any longer.

"I can't stand _you_!" He growled, reaching out sharply to pull Matt's pants down again and pushing intently against him one last time.

_I'm sorry for the absolutely unforgivable amount of time it took me to get this chapter up. I've been wrapped up in another particular series as of late . . ._

_I had a good plan in my head for how this chapter would go, but I had real trouble getting the dialogue decent and I think this chapter turned out an extremely pretentious mess. Also, totally upsetting and unsexy. I promise the next chapter will be a lot sexier and a lot less contrived, so stick with me! _

_And review, please! I'm getting all these "update alerts" and "favourite story added" messages from and no new reviews. I'd _really _like some reviews, even on my old fics!_


	7. Dancing

Dancing

Mello had been dreading this day for days, likely from the exact moment when L sent him back in the House, because Mello was smart and could think one hundred steps ahead of the present, even if he didn't always choose to follow those steps.

L asked politely that Mello take Near's place tonight, worded it not as a challenge so much as a medial task, something that Mello should take on without question. So he did, upon L's instruction, infallible and impermeable L's quiet order, take up Near's show for the night.

So he would take Near's place while he recovered, because even though it made him sick to even_ think about _himself handling himself in way that even _resembled_ Near, he would _never_ let anyone else take that role other than him, it _had _to be him, and Mello, despite himself, would fight naked through broken glass to put himself in that role.

So while Near recovered, Mello stepped onto the stage. Before the curtain rose, he made excuses for himself, swearing and cursing everyone's names and wasn't Near healed, already? Mello recalled getting straight back to work after he got the bandages off his burns. He did faint within an hour that night, but forcing himself somehow made the pain lesser when he did inevitably fall flat on his face.

The curtain rose and Mello was greeted by a parade of erections waiting to happen. Excited Near fans stared up at him with something of shock, seeing tall and severe Mello rather than their sweet, petit Near (though they were nearly the exact same height).

Mello wore a pretty, slim-fitting black dress, stuck with lace and shiny ribbons of ebony. He looked like some slutty Lolita princess's fashion dream, but with a hard chest and long, muscular legs in place of a slim waist and softly sloping shoulders. The whole getup was sickening to Mello, but it was the closest compromise he would settle on between wearing any of Near's cutesy, lacy clothes and slitting his wrists right then and there.

Mello _didn't do_ trap. He much preferred the dress to any of Near's schoolboy getups, but he was not setting out to be a woman tonight. Mello was a man, and only ever himself, and was determined to prove that he would remain evidently male no matter how he dressed or walked or displayed himself. As a result, his body along with the somewhat sheer dress, tight tights and shoes created a look that was uncompromisingly androgynous, that was femininely beautiful and masculinely harsh at once.

Long legs strode proudly along the stage, wrapped up in black nylons that rose to the thigh and shoes with neat buckles and a modest heel. Mello could stand the stockings – in fact, he was always fascinated that the location of the garter was also to where concealed guns were secured. He posed arrogantly and uncompromising of his eminence while he danced, looking upon nervous patrons with a look of edgy beauty.

The men looked confused, but for the most part too stunned to say a thing. They had come looking for Near, for whatever odd reason it was that they liked him, and were treated to, instead of their charming stoic schoolboy, a domineering, tall, feminine Mello, who looked down at them with unmasked cruelty.

The audience was impressed, for the most part, by Mello's performance. Mello smirked and reasoned that this was the perfect chance to display his superior skills, though while also thinking they were all 

undeserving of his look. Mello was stubborn and unsympathetic like that. While he wanted praise and applause, he was quite willing to spit it back into his audience's faces to punish them for their submissiveness. He played the same wicked game with Matt – Matt who was too dismissive would find himself compulsorily abstinent for days, as Matt who was too faithful would find himself in the same sexless position until Mello's mood and grip changed. Matt had thus learned the proper mix of captivated and indifferent to act when it came to Mello and sex. Mello grinned to think about how well Matt really was trained, in some things . . .

Now, if only these Near fans would follow suit.

Mello bent low, arching his back and hips smoothly up in the air. He crouched on the edge of the stage and reached elegantly towards a patron, teasing the lazy folds of his relaxed shirt collar while looking him fiercely in the eyes. The man responded with his own pleased grin, focusing on Mello's face, attracted oddly to the compliment of his scar to his smooth white skin.

Mello smiled inwardly. Things were working rather well. He had the audience captivated by his body, his look, his act, his boldness. Men were bending under his thumb as per usual; however when a crass tone rose from the crowd, the cracks in his façade were rigorously illuminated.

"Where's Near?"

Mello twitched violently at the utterance. His mind cursed the source of the voice while his body made its steady way over. He departed his seduced target and headed for a rather haughty, but in a low-class way, arrogant patron seated a few chairs away.

The customer had an arm slung over the back of his chair, his jacket open and shirt buttoned down. Mello didn't handle pride like that very well, unless it was he himself who wore it, and especially when it dared to elevate Near's name above his.

"You want Near, do you?" Mello asked politely, smoothing his hair elegantly behind his ear, squatted on the stage, legs boldly open.

The man stared unwaveringly back at him, a seemingly permanent conceited smirk worn on his face. Mello had the sudden urge to grab his dick and crush it under his shoe, but he smiled sweetly instead and rubbed his hands down his sides.

"Yeah," the man replied coolly. "I came here to see him, not some skinny, wannabe slut in tights."

Anger seared through Mello's body. He only held his temper because he'd been called worse; he knew how things got when men got drunk. And he knew he couldn't do anything to mess up this situation – the mission L gave him to do.

Mello grit his teeth. "Near isn't here. Wouldn't you like to watch me, instead?" He swept a hand down his chest coolly, forced smile darkening into a sort of fluid glare that soaked the room with malevolent pressure.

"Not interested," the man mumbled. He was drunk, besides on the hard liquor, on the notion that in here, he was God, and he wasn't completely wrong to do it. L operated on the notion that the customer 

was always right, which Mello had found foolish ever since he was younger, because surely the genius L was right a lot more of the time. But L knew that getting people to cooperate with you meant allowing them to think you actually wanted or needed them to cooperate with you.

"I can find dirty, desperate acts like you on any street corner, lover boy," the man continued, "you know Near is way out of your league."

Mello's eyes grew wide. He lunged forward, jumped off of the stage and snatched the man up by the collar. The way the man slumped in his grasp proved he either was too drunk to keep a hold on his coordination or too overconfident to care.

Mello growled. He felt like he was on fire, and that maybe if he focused hard enough the flames would burn up all of this lace and pretty ribbons.

The man's response was a smirk and a snort, tempting and wicked and searing.

Mello pulled back his arm and snapped it forward, releasing his fist across the man's stubborn cheek. He heard a crack and saw a splatter of blood splash onto the coat of the patron to the left. The other man backed disgustedly away, shouting an indignant response that bounced against Mello's deaf ears.

The man Mello's grip, bleeding from the mouth where his cheek had split on his molars, lifted a hand to his lips to feel the damage. Horrified, he shouted at Mello, who was now no longer a flimsy image, but a man with real anger and real ferocity.

"You son of a bitch!" The man spat blood onto Mello's throat. He gripped the blonde's shoulders and attempted to take control of the blond, who, though skinnier, rose a few inches taller than him.

Mello growled and hit the man again, cracking something else. He withdrew his fist and man tried then to take a swing at him, which Mello stopped with a third punch o the side of his face, which rendered the patron helpless, hanging out of Mello's arms.

Mello dropped the man into his chair and stood up straight, trying to regain his composure. Mello wasn't particularly prone to violence of that calibre, but known to lose his control and do irrational things. He knew tonight was a bad idea. He knew he would end up breaking something, but figured that somehow, he could hold things together until the end.

Now that he'd nearly ruined everything, Mello looked at the floor to measure the damage. A few patrons seemed quite excited by the carnage, while a few others were disgusted – but they were all of them frozen in place with shock. Mello breathed heavily and thought of how to rectify things, the only solution coming to mind being to start dancing again, lacy dress and bloody gloves and all.

As Mello was turning to get back on stage, the patron he thought he had put an end to was struggling to his feet. Mello turned sharply, horrified, acting reflexively, meaning to put another fist to the man's throat, but was stopped by a gentle arm taking his elbow.

Mello froze instantly as though he was attacked, nearly fainting as the blood rushed to his head. He heard no noise, saw nothing, felt only L's body pressed into his back, his hand around his wrist.

"That's quite enough," L whispered coolly. His breath met the hot red shell of Mello's ear and stopped him dead in his tracks.

A few other customers were restraining the one who egged Mello on when the bouncers arrived to escort the fuming patron out. The remaining audience watched the interaction unfold between Mello and L who stood in front of the waist-high platform of the stage.

L's full height, dressed all in delicate but authoritative black, rose a little over Mello's head. He held onto Mello's arms with both of his long hands, dipping his chin into the crook of Mello's shoulder.

"I think show's quite over, now," L whispered softly. There was no music playing, the only sound was L's voice and the blood pumping in Mello's ears.

_L._

It was all the blond could muster in response and he wasn't sure if he'd said it or merely thought it. L was . . . L was touching him, for one, a rare treatment so very fine that it was a dream and a nightmare all at once. His hands pulled Mello's willing arms around behind him and snatched them together in one long hand, effectively arresting him. He ran the other hand sensually down Mello's side, and Mello cursed the dress even further for impeding L's hand in any way as it hooked onto his hip and held him lawfully still.

_L . . . L is . . . for me . . ._

When reality slowly crept back in and Mello could see, hear, feel beyond L's hands softly upon him, he realized what was going on. L was fixing things, as usual. Mello had ruined the show, failed, and L was coaxing the pieces back together with his ever-present sense of non-urgency, perfection and grace.

He was putting on a beautiful show, just as he always did, erotic and authoritative and so in control that it was frustrating . . . He put his hand that wasn't securing Mello's arms behind his back like handcuffs up onto the boy's jaw, hooking his fingers into place under the bone and pulling him gently around.

Mello's breath hitched. He wasn't characteristically appalled that he was so absolutely not in control, under L's fingers. L turned his head around slowly and deftly towards his own and Mello's mind ached. _No, no, L!_ He wanted to cry out, everything was wrong, L was disappointed in him and drawing him in any closer Mello was sure would crush him completely.

Luckily L stopped just inches from putting his lips to Mello's, instead laying them nearly against Mello's ear, delivering the deathblow, what he knew was the final sentence: "You did well tonight, Mello."

The words were spoken quietly enough to be only heard by Mello, though his next were spoken to the room at large. "That's enough; it's time you went and took a rest, yes, Mello?"

Mello, stunned, merely allowed L to cart him away, hands secure behind him, into the backstage area. He hardly heard L offer the room the offer of compensation, an entertaining show later, and lots to drink still to be had. He didn't notice the customers go back to drinking or the bouncers resetting the tables into position. He noticed only that nothing – not the lacy dress, not the blood-speckled gloves, of his look of pure dumbstruck shock – was as humiliating as L seeing him fail.

--

As if to make up for the state of breathless shock Mello had found himself in all the while that L's hands were on him, as soon as he was released Mello's body heaved to draw in air. He shook with breath, trying to force himself to swallow his gasps and sobs, only to make worse the choking and near winded state he was in.

Mello was known to work himself up – and when in those worst instances he didn't become violent, he became exhausted instead. He crashed to his hands and knees on the floor, sucking in air, near tears.

"L . . . I'm sorry!" Mello hissed out. His knees scraped on the industrial carpet in the middle of the change room floor. He knew he'd failed . . . it was inexcusable; he'd ruined something L put in his hands and it _hurt so much_ . . . L . . . Mello was quite ready, even determined, to subjugate his own feelings at L's feet and accept his punishment for his failure.

L was still. He faced away, as if insensitively searching for something to pique his interest on the far wall. As his outfit was without pockets, his hands rested gently at his sides.

"L, I'm so sorry, I–" Mello hissed once more. At times like this – or maybe it was the drunken afterglow of violence that did it, (maybe even his hidden sense of justice) that made Mello desire destruction, fire, penalty. It was just like when he got burned – or maybe it was that event that caused his lurid cycle – he had had such difficulty dealing with the fact that he'd lost that he elected to destroy the area and his own body as retribution.

Mello couldn't take losing graciously. He couldn't accept that he'd just failed and should hope for better luck next time. It was because he knew he could have won, how he could've won. He knew where his mistake was and honed in on it like a sniper, childishly wishing to go back and pluck it out. But even more than that did he _want_ L's punishment.

L was still. Mello wanted him to discipline, hit without words, attack with mechanical accuracy his failure. But what L did was worse: he stood and politely forgave.

"It's quite alright, Mello." L said plainly.

Mello shook. He realized that L was preserving his feelings, he wasn't going to let Mello burn up for his mistakes. With anyone else – hell, perhaps with Near most of all – L would calmly outline the source of the problem with percentages and facts and specifics barely comprehensible to anyone but L. But with Mello he held back, was as fair and polite as L could be, and that hurt even more. Maybe it was that he didn't feel Mello needed to be told that he'd made a mistake. Maybe he was, in fact, so very insensitive as his black stare appeared, and simply didn't want to deal with Mello's emotional inadequacy. Whatever it was, L kept his analysis in his head while Mello insisted he wanted to hear it.

"L, I'll make it up!" Mello tried. Nothing like this had happened before, nothing so extreme. Fights broke out, but Mello had never struck a patron before tonight. _What was wrong with him?_ Mello was already going over where he could've gone wrong, even if L refused to. _Why did he react like that? Why couldn't he have just been calmly unfazed, like– like–? _

L was unmoving. He turned his big eyes towards a wall, in the slight gesture indicating his disappointment. "It's alright. No serious damage was done, and indeed given the circumstances, you did not act beyond reason."

Mello wasn't sure if L _could_ lie, but was nearly sure he was now. _What're you doing, L, sparing my feelings all of the sudden?_ "L, let me make it up, somehow!"

Mello wanted to cry, to show he was sorry, even if it wouldn't make a difference to L, but somehow couldn't, remained hard and aware and alone.

Alone. Suddenly a feeling of abysmal grief came over Mello: he was lonely. Right here, next to L, he was completely isolated, as if he didn't make the slightest impact on L or on anything. Matt. Where was Matt?

He couldn't do what Near did so easily. Mello clung mercilessly to the idea that he could do anything Near could do, better, an idea L also seemed to hold true, because L could always do _anything_, _anytime_ he wanted.

"L! Just let me–!" Mello tried one last time, crying into the dark and begging for anything, even if it was only an echo.

"No, Mello," L said insistently, training his big black eyes back on his young heir. His tone was severe, as it was on the night Near was assaulted, and Mello froze, but not without hiccupping weakly and finally feeling a tear on his cheek.

Mello was vaguely aware of a tear on the other cheek, traversing the scar tissue, so he couldn't feel it. And that was it. Nothing more.

"Go home and take the night off, please, Mello," L ordered, turning back to a particular wall.

Mello huffed and turned to leave, suddenly desiring to escape, but not before stripping off his dress with his back turned to L, wrenching up his pants and boots and tossing his red coat around his bare shoulders.

L looked solemnly at the wall and was silently disappointed for a reason that hand nothing to do with Mello; coming to a realization, like his younger heir did, that he was isolated, too.

--

It hardly took minutes for Mello to strip and Matt to join him on the bed when the blond came in the door. Matt didn't question why his partner wasn't wearing a shirt or socks, or was home early, or was looking defeated rather than arrogantly pleased with himself as he did most nights after work. Mello approved that Matt didn't often ask questions, he judged his partner's mood and elected to keep his mouth shut, except during those rare times when he felt he deserved any sort of claim on Mello's life.

Mello had set himself on his hands and knees and Matt was tentatively probing his insides while running his other hand up and down the crest of Mello's right hip. Mello bucked, tightening and pinching the 

fingers inside him, seeking not so much stimulation of the bundle of nerves locked inside him, but more stretch and intrusion.

"That's enough of that," Mello ordered, head tipped down between his shoulders, eyes clenched shut. His mind swirled with thoughts he wished to silence, to drown in his and his lover's collective moans.

Matt withdrew his fingers. He muttered a rather doubtful, "okay," before getting up on his knees to penetrate the man yielding before him.

Matt slid in quite quickly, settling into place against the back of Mello's thighs and leaning over to kiss his back. Mello shuddered and allowed himself to sit for a moment like that, comprehending the awkward connection to Matt's body.

Then suddenly, Mello reached back and pulled Matt's leg swiftly out from beneath him, forcing the other leg to slip with it, and then his hips, back, dropping him onto his back on the bed looking up. He slid down over Matt's waiting erection again, growling savagely at the cruel pressure on his insides.

Forcing his breathing to come harder, Mello tipped his head down to look at Matt, whose surprised expression made Mello unable to help but laugh a little.

"Eager, are we?" Matt asked, raising an eyebrow.

Mello grinned, suddenly much more at ease. "Got a problem?"

Matt frowned rather apathetically. "Well you coulda warned me," he noted, reaching up to pat his head, which he'd nearly, hit on the headboard.

Mello's small smile slipped away and faded into a distinctly pained look as the ache of the penetration throbbed and made him dizzy. An odd mix of apathy and misery circled locked inside him, flooding his chest sorely with the weight of oppression and isolation.

The blonde gathered his waning strength and pulled himself up, biting his tongue as he straightened out his stiff spine, back arched taut like a bowstring, thin chest puffed rigidly outwards. His breast thrust out, arms stiff and neck curved backward in contrast.

Matt's hand came to his partner's hip, setting softly on the rough ridge of bone beneath the thin skin. The look on Mello's closed eyelids was one of suffering, and Matt wondered then if the blonde was trying to hurt himself.

"Mello, are you–?" Matt began, stopped hard and abruptly as Mello turned his hips and his flesh squeezed hard on Matt's dick. They both cringed in pain, Matt laying the hand that wasn't vainly securing Mello's pelvis, on his forehead, pinching his temples to dissolve the sting.

"Mello – Jesus! – are you alright?" Matt choked out, drawing on the stamina he'd built up after years of being with the blonde near-sexual-deviant instigator, threatening to come as Mello's hot entrance sucked him in.

Mello didn't respond, didn't speak, merely moved, only once, in a graceful upward thrust befitting a dancer, wincing as pleasure and pain spread through his nerves outward from its source deep in his back.

Matt growled and threw back his head. "Fuck! Mel–" he dropped his hands to the mattress and grasped the sheets brutally as Mello rocked up and down once more.

Mello breathed hard out, building up a rhythm against Matt's hardness, pushing up on his hips and sliding all the vertebrae of his spine. He pushed forward with his hips, carrying the wave up through his stomach, chest, proud neck, and letting it out through his mouth, opened around a silent gasp.

Matt watched the display, controlling his hips from jumping erratically up and ruining the beautiful measure Mello was moving to. The way his lover moved was like he was dancing – flowing to a beat in his head and heart, sensual and stunningly powerful and fragile at once.

"Mello . . . that's incredible . . . " Matt mumbled, watching the muscles tighten in Mello's throat and neck as he moved, arching his spine fluidly and sensually in rhythmic waves. Surges of pleasure spread as heat across his chest and stomach; Matt let Mello pull his hips up on each movement upwards, sucking him steadily into his hot cavity, deeper than he thought he'd ever gone.

Mello shivered, sweat starting to dot his forehead and shoulders, head tipped skywards in ecstasy, driving him into a sort of trance where all there was was he and Matt, ever sturdy against his actions, a champion of support and warmth and heat . . . this heat he'd managed to find despite everything, despite tonight and his anger and seclusion . . . Matt was unaffected, ever strong and loyal.

Mello hissed out, eyes narrowing, weakly opening his mouth, head tipped down into the junction of his collarbones as he bucked and arched. His eyes watered with unshed tears, breathing becoming harder and hotter. He neared his finish, his beautiful climax, the long-due finale to his show for an audience of one.

Matt grunted and tipped back his head, voice gone save for a final, sudden and coarse, "there– there!" as his pleasure peaked.

Mello let out a few final moans – "ah– . . . ah!" before he ascended finally beyond his arching body, beyond the rhythm of his unique dance, breaking through into a space of pure light, as he climaxed.

Matt groaned and fell back against the bed, Mello un-sticking himself from Matt's slick member and settling on his waist. He let himself curve nimbly over, flaccid dick pressed asexually against Matt's warm, expanding and sinking stomach.

The blond pulled gratefully at Matt's hair, innocently tugging at the strands as he began to fall asleep. Matt lay flat under Mello's slight weight, breathing levelling out, silent pride echoing in his chest. He tiredly moved to secure a hand over the rampant scar tissue that invaded his partner's back, rubbing it with his fingertips until they both shortly fell asleep.

* * *

_Thanks to everyone for stickin' with this fic despite my erratic update schedule and steadily worsening writing! Encouraging reviews, literally, set my heart ablaze. My lust for life is restored, and I feel like being creative again._

_I'm not sure if I'm completely pleased with this chapter – Mello seems something contradictory and unsure, changing his mind a lot but not willing to admit it, which is a fair characterization for him, I suppose . . . I'm not sure. _

_One of the reviews I received, from one _Olynara Sedai_, said this about Mello: ". . . he just lives and fights with his boyfriend and watches and tries to understand why his 'partners' aren't more like him." This is really exactly what I was thinking about Mello – he has such a completely different way of thinking than anyone else in Death Note – L, Light, Near – and in that respect I think he is very lonely. That is, I'd say everyone from Death Note is quite lonely, but Mello, I think, is more likely to actually feel it. Anyways, I'm glad I was getting that across in my characterization of Mello, and will continue to explore it as I go. Thank you very much _Olynara_, and thank you to all of my other reviewers! You make me unduly happy._

_P.P.S.: SO I HERD U LEIK RAITO? It seems all of you readers are pretty stoked for Light's appearance in this story. Sorry it's been such a long time coming, but Light WILL appear in the next chapter, but yeah, his appearance signals the beginning of the end of this fic. (Not saying any more about that for now.) So everyone, look forward to Light's debut!_


	8. Main Distraction

Main Distraction

He was a genius. An ideally beautiful, coolly serious, eerily calm genius. Everyone in the neighbourhood knew this when he received the first place grade ranking at the local high school 3 years in a row. Everyone in the city knew it when he graduated Tokyo University with the record-setting average of 98.8 in all six of his core classes. And everyone in the country knew it when he became the head of the most high-profile criminal case the country had seen in years at the ripe young age of 23 and _solved_ it.

Little was known about Light Yagami's personal life, however, and even less about his personality. Aside from the most solid of facts, which everyone seemed to know – he lived in Tokyo, had one younger sister, attended Tokyo U – and which all seemed to be consistent, the details of Light's life never seemed to line up. Those who knew him described the youth as cold, kind, patient, intellectual, competitive, deceptive, caring, honest, and friendly.

As for the rumours that he was wooing energetic idol "Misa-Misa" Amane, while simultaneously having an affair with Tokyo news anchor and TV personality Kyoumi Takada, most people believed them to be unduly exaggerated. But no one dared defy them or lay them to rest – because Light Yagami was just the type, if common understanding so confirmed, to carry out such a thing as have a relationship with two seperate celebrities at once.

Light's near absurd rise to fame came at the age of 23, when just barely out of law school Light launched himself into a career in the paralegal, taking up the hardest and most high-profile case the country had seen in decades. While some say he pursued it with near inhuman intent, others say he casually stepped into the "Kira" Case, like into water in a pool. With cool effectiveness Light did what international criminal investigators could not; with collected silence that could be interpreted as ease he examined all of the evidence, the people involved, the actions and reactions of all parties, including the prosecution. It was the obscure and vague pattern that connected all of the victims to the killer, a man who claimed to be doing the Death God's will, that finished him and set Light into international acclaim.

People close to Light and even detached fans of the man often remarked to him that with that talent he displayed on that case he could be a detective or a private agent. With a look rich with skill that seemed to have the ability to make people dissolve, Light would regard this suggestion, curiously quiet and ever elegant, and those people would often feel overcome in his gaze by something truer than calculation and more fulfilling than compassion.

"Then again, with your mind, you could do anything you liked."

Light Yagami would smile at this remark and turn his head mildly back to his distant thoughts.

But when Light Yagami, the most brilliant, pretentious, humble, calculating, fair man in Japan came to Wammy's House one night, the spotlight didn't turn directly onto him. Here, he was not a star, not the brilliant hero everyone seemed to see. The House belonged to L – here, he was king, and he and his boys enjoyed a private fame to rival Yagami's real-world power.

It was probably his big eyes and the slim turn of his jaw that made Light appear younger than he was. He slunk his long hands gracefully into his pockets and at the bar he ordered only water. Eyes turned to watch his soft, glistening hair, glowing in the weak yellow light as he walked along the bar, which was nearly vacant at this early evening hour, carried his drink to an empty table and sat boldly right in front of the stage.

L had seen him coming. Since the moment he came through the door, in the same way all eyes trained on L did L's eyes turn on the youth in the fine suit and quiet half-smile. For a moment, L nearly forgot he was center stage and drew his thumb to his lip, but he was able to work the gesture into his typical manoeuvres.

From when Light crossed one long leg over the other, put his elbow on the table and fingers delicately on his cheek, it was a matter of shared thoughts and conflicting opinions, though all in silence. The two men were unquestionably drawn to each other, and with absurd clarity L knew exactly what Light was doing here and Light knew exactly why he'd come, without either of them being able to put it into reasonable terms, even in their heads.

In the darkness of the hall, L stuck close to the pole in the center of the stage. The golden brass gleamed in the stage lights as he balanced carefully against it. Pressing the base of his spine against the metal, his back arched characteristically forwards, the coarse cut of the bones disguised under a liquid-smooth swath of black fabric. As he sunk to the stage, he unfurled his back, with each movement connecting another vertebra to the pole, one by one, rhythmically and slow. Plain shorts and a top with a high collar, low shoes, all black, made up his outfit tonight, and as he bent to squat, the tough muscles in his thighs pulled taut and were clearly visible. On his face as he turned to take the pole in both hands was a softly sexless expression, mouth closed and eyes wide and questioning. In his look were secrets and suggestions, long pent-up restraint made clear, and while everyone in the hall was invited to look, there was only one who truly saw what it meant.

Light sipped his drink, his lips lingering on the cold rim, savouring the bitterness of the pure water in his mouth. He stared intently up at L, with a look of understanding and wonder in one, tipping his head curiously when he knew L's eyes locked with his. The heavy black gaze was almost whimsical, it seemed, at first, but then appeared oddly focused and powerful. Powerful in a completely different way than Light's romantic and seductive smile, which flirted keenly across the hall and up onto the bright center stage.

L felt his heart leap into his throat when the brown eyes met his. L hardly recognized an opponent, but before him was the one he'd been waiting for. L couldn't explain it, not even in his own mind, how, why and for how long he'd been looking for the stranger seated before him.

L stepped coyly towards the edge of the stage, and without semblance of a flourish, nor hesitation, but instead with proud strength he approached the center of the first row. L had no trouble touching Light, felt no sting of cautious mistrust vibrate in his temples when he put his hand flat on the man's chest. When he pushed forward with his fingertips, as if to test the give, he felt the chest push back, and inwardly, L smiled.

Light's small smile grew. He uncrossed his legs and his back straightened nearly imperceptibly as L climbed into his lap.

The audience, as if being allowed finally to behold the scene playing hitherto only in the heads of the two men, gawked anew with awe and surprise. The bold gesture alone was a rarity. It was so very rare that a dancer would touch a patron or even descend from the stage to allow an audience member so much as a closer view. Most of the audience had seen Mello do it to Matt, though unaware that the one being treated to a pair of tight thighs rubbing down his stretched denim-clad lap was any one more to the one doing the treating than just some lucky stranger chosen at random. To Near, it was about keeping the act rare enough so as to cause more of a stir when it did occur – the principle of random interval reward schedule was one Near had understood since he began. To L, it was all about who drew his attention, and from the look of it, the youth in the front row, who came in alone and whose eyes were only for L; drew an awful lot of his attention.

L led his long hands to Light's shoulders, as if sizing up the hard span of torso, leading them then down and kneading as he travelled to the boy's back. He was young, yes, L decided, this Light wasn't any younger than his heirs, but he had a sort of innocence and naïveté that was rather very well hidden. L found it under his fingertips, beneath the smart brown blazer, beneath the pressed white shirt, beneath the soft young skin it beat, and L found it in a single caress.

The curve of L's back and Light's smooth facial features were arousing sights indeed as they sat combined, L pushing himself up to stare down at the youth seated; but it was their gaze that was the most stunning. Seemingly impenetrable brown eyes met unfathomable black depths and seemed to melt rather than spark and clash. L, for a rare moment appeared fascinated to the point of puzzlement, and Light seemed strikingly pleased by the sight before him.

The music picking up tempo brought L back to reality in time to realize Light's hand had settled on his hip without him noticing. Soft and naked, it was an oddly tender gesture, and with only slight, lingering suspicion, L savoured the touch, and for a moment didn't want to leave it.

L started to get up, his long hands leaving contact with the shoulders, chest, legs of this young beauty, his legs leaving last as he stood and walked back onto the stage. He crawled atop it, eyes lingering still on Light, quite unabashedly taking in his shape, his texture, and certain indescribable things the boy seemed to have.

Before the lights went out and applause broke sudden and powerful in the large hall, L's eyes saw Light's last, and without a word made a promise to meet, gaze, touch again.

--

The glowing youth with the chestnut brown hair and the touch of malevolence came back. He kept coming back for weeks to Wammy's, sometimes capturing the spotlight and other times fading into the dark corners. He sat in silence, watching, observing, enjoying himself in the sights and sounds of a classy skin-show, eyes and skin the near brilliant gold in the soft lighting L and Watari worked hard to produce. Sometimes, Light brought a book, a briefcase with him, kept his eyes half on the show and half in his notebook. Sometimes he sat at a table with his laptop open, seemingly ignorant of his surroundings.

Teasing and tempting was his every gesture, half-looking or fully ignoring L, who was ever there.

L would stare and ponder, ponder and stare at the youth in his store, spend hours bunched up on the kitchen floor in deliberation, seated at his makeup table thinking. He would spend nights laying on his bed, covers pushed down to the end, wanton hand draped on his chest and far more wanton opposite hand placed far lower, thinking about him.

It happened nearly to immediately for L to comprehend – the two of them, the brilliant youth and he, seated at the same table, looking each other down.

L tugged his toes under him, bunched up in the booth like always. Watari dropped off tea for the two of them but L's focus was elsewhere. His heart raced as Light spoke,

"Hello. Nice to meet you. I'm Yagami Light. I'm-"

A lawyer involved with the settlement for this tenement.

_That's it?_

The government recently sold this land to a private proprietor_. I'm here to discuss the details with you. It's merely procedure that I'm here._

"No . . ." L muttered, cursing without reason his bland voice, "I don't think it is . . ."

Suddenly Light Yagami was closer than he was before to L. His fingers reached not immediately for what was obvious the prize he sought, but politely, elegantly they fell to L's ankle, circling the skinny bone with finger and thumb, before moving up his bent leg. Then at the knee he moved down the thigh, petting smoothly and slowly.

Illogically L became less suspicious as Light's hand drew closer to his hip. It seemed to make sense, to L, that in this situation, this setting, under this lighting . . . he should be touched. Yes. Didn't he deserve it? In the darkness of the candle-lit booth, his resolve seemed to tauten. Light's breath was suddenly on his neck.

"Are you going to tell me your name?" Light whispered.

"I am L."

A sudden, breath-taking first kiss.

* * *

_Sorry for the delay, folks. I was busy slacking off all summer. Thank you as always for the wonderful reviews; they always lift my spirits!_


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